


All we know is that we don’t

by Evaleigh77



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2019-10-21 06:05:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaleigh77/pseuds/Evaleigh77
Summary: Well, hi.I hope you guys enjoy this new take. It isn't Spare Keys, ok? The timeline and storyline are different. The character interpretation is slightly different. (Shout out to Alessia Cara for the title...her new album is SO DAMN GOOD.)In summary, this was fun as hell to write. Hope you enjoy reading it just as much.Cheers!





	1. July 2018

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hi. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this new take. It isn't Spare Keys, ok? The timeline and storyline are different. The character interpretation is slightly different. (Shout out to Alessia Cara for the title...her new album is SO DAMN GOOD.)
> 
> In summary, this was fun as hell to write. Hope you enjoy reading it just as much. 
> 
> Cheers!

_July 2018_

She has three known superpowers: flawless lines in ice skates, reading at the speed other people blink and the ability to sense a Scott Moir meltdown days in advance, like some kind of infallible emotional barometer.  
  


This one has been precisely five days in the making.  
  


“I think we’re jet lagged,” Tessa says calmly, taking a deep imaginary breath in her nose and blowing it slowly out of her mouth. “And exhausted, Scott. We’ve done nothing but run like hamsters in a wheel since…”  
  


She trails off because she can’t remember the last time they weren’t hamsters in a fucking wheel.  
  


The empty pizza box sitting between them is only one of the indicators of how fast and hard they’ve been pedaling that wheel. There are the baskets of dirty laundry, empty refrigerators, full voicemail and email inboxes and a pair of matching upper respiratory infections that just won’t quit.  
  


Other indicators also include short fuses (him) and avoidance (her).  
  


“I’m sorry if I sound like I’m dodging the question,” she tries again, keeping her voice low and soothing as she takes another sip of white wine. “I just think it makes more sense to talk about it when we--”  
  


“When we what, Tessa?”  
  


He sits ramrod straight in one of her deck chairs – unnaturally straight for a guy who, despite possessing the carriage and gait of the world’s greatest living ice dancer, typically lounges, sprawls or slumps when off the ice as a matter of course.  
  


“At what point in the linear construct of time do you think we’ll be rested, acclimated, professionally ready, properly transitioned – fill in the fucking blank here – enough to talk about it?”  
  


_Imaginary breath in._  
  


_Imaginary breath out._  
  


“That’s not fair.”  
  


The deck chair emits one loud creak as he shoots to his feet, sending a half-full beer bottle rolling wildly until it hits the leg of the small bistro table in the corner and skitters underneath, leaving a river in its wake.  
  


“Fuck that,” he seethes, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief. “You’re either in love with me or you’re not. You either want to take the next step and stop fucking around or you don’t. This isn’t complex math…in fact, it’s really simple. But, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t want simple. Simple means complicating the Tessa Virtue Five Year Brand Engagement Plan. And hell if we can have that.”  
  


“Ok.” She holds up her hand and onto her temper by the thinnest of threads. “Right there. That’s how I know we shouldn’t be talking about this tonight. It feels like you’re trying to hurt my feelings now.”  
  


_This is what we do,_ she thinks wearily, watching him flex his fingers and wrists a few times before shoving them through his hair. _He gets hot, and I stay cool, and eventually he self-adjusts._  
  


 “Stop it. Stop fucking looking at me like that.” he bites out, catching her watching him and giving her a contemptuous look.  
  


Ok. He eventually self-adjusts most of the time.  
  


“I don’t want to fight with you,” she says calmly as she stands to gather their paper plates and trash, intent on allowing him a cool off period. “And, I don’t think you truly want to fight with me either.”  
  


When she returns from the kitchen ten minutes later, she pauses level with him on the deck, standing close enough that their hips touch as they face in opposite directions – him staring through the tall French doors into her living room and her looking out into the peaceful expanse of her darkened back yard.  
  


“Hey.” She bumps her hip gently against his, her tone making it clear that the invisible re-set button has been pushed. “I recorded the start of the Tigers game for you…I’ll turn it on and then grab another-”  
  


“I need to tell you something.”  
  


It’s not his words that make her lungs contract, but his tone – calm with undercurrents of irritation.  
  


After a moment, she recognizes it as his martyr voice. The one he uses when he’s fucked up but believes the fuck up is really all hers.  
  


It’s a voice she knows very, very well.  
  


Scott stands perfectly still, eyes focused intently on her living room couch. She notices he’s got his car keys clutched in his right hand. An icy ripple of anxiety plunges its way through her stomach.  
  


“Something happened with Katerina on tour.”  
  


She hears him swallow.  
  


Her mouth opens and then shuts. Nothing comes out.  
  


The Russian skater’s perky blonde ponytail and cat-eyed smile appear in Technicolor on the walls of her brain. She’d hit on Scott mercilessly the entire trip, but it had been so overt and desperate, Tessa hadn’t given it a second thought.  
  


Out of the corner of her eye, she watches a small dark brown moth cling to the dirty glass of her porch light, its wings beating frantically.  
  


“I was so angry with you that last night,” he continues, his tone still strangely even, given how upset he’d been just a few minutes ago. “I took too many shots, and then she asked a few of people back to her room to play cards. After a while, it was just the two of us.”  
  


He swallows loudly again, the sound wet and sloppy. It makes her skin crawl.  
  


The moth’s wings flutter even faster now, as it scales sideways across the plane of the lantern.  
  


“I didn’t sleep with her, and I didn’t stay the night. But it still made me feel like a complete piece of shit.” He turns to look at her in profile, but her gaze stays fixed on the moth, whose wings have now gone strangely still. “And it wouldn’t have happened in the first place if you would just tell me…”  
  


He trails off bitterly, his voice jagged. “…if you would just let us settle this – settle whatever this is going to be.”  
  


Even though she’s not looking directly at him, she can see him gesture between them with a frustrated wave of his hand, before rubbing his eyes tiredly.  
  


“I don’t know what to say right now,” she says at last, after at least a full minute of silence has passed.  
  


Finally, she faces him, lets her eyes see – really see – him for what feels like the first time since they returned home in February, riding that exhilarating but ultimately ephemeral wave of invincibility.  
  


“I can’t believe that you would…” Her words fail her, as the anger begins to catch up to the shock of his confession. “Are you really trying to use this as some sort of fucked up, perverse rationale for being _settled_ , while also somehow blaming me for your shitty decision making?”  
  


“No, Tess. Look, you’re right…it was a shitty decision, and I’m sorr--”  
  


“There it is,” she cuts him off through gritted teeth. “I was wondering when you might get around to that part.”  
  


Scott throws his arms in the air with a roar of frustration, his car keys landing with a clatter on the ground.  
  


“I just want to be with you and only you, just like I told you on tour…like I’ve told you every fucking day since the night before the free,” he yells, the calm collected demeanor during  his confession vanishing in an instant. “But you keep pushing me away! And, I’m not sure why, to be honest. Because I don’t buy all the transition bullshit you keep spouting. We’re transitioning just fine. It’s not perfect, but it was never going to be.”  
  


“This is you transitioning just fine? Katerina is evidence that you’re having no trouble at all transitioning?” she asks drily, unable to keep the mocking sarcasm out of her words. “Bullshit, Scott. Just like Dr. Sherman told us in March, we’re in the middle of a grieving process, whether it feels like that or not in the moment. We’re both trying to work through the fact that this enormous part of our lives and careers is over. I need time to do that. You need time to do that.”  
  


_Another mental deep breath in._  
  


“You keep pushing me for something I’m not ready to give.” She swallows a wave of nausea, as she pictures a blonde ponytail bobbing between his thighs. “Something that I don’t really think you’re ready to receive. I mean…we had a fight and your immediate reaction was to walk dick in hand to the first desperate girl on tour.”  
  


He jaw ticks a couple of times like it does when he’s about to explode.  
  


But, when he opens his mouth to speak, his voice quiet and rough.  
  


“It was a mistake, and I’m sorry.” His head tilts back as he closes his eyes and exhales, before looking at her again, his eyes glassy. “But figuring us out doesn’t have to be this complicated, Tess. It just doesn’t. Let me be with you. Let me take care of you. That’s all I want to do. Stop making it so hard.”  
  


They stare at each other in the dull light for a moment, and she realizes that everything she’s said for the last few weeks – everything she needs from him and for herself – is lost on him.  
  


She walks over to where his keys lay on the ground and picks them up, extending them in her outstretched palm.  
  


“I don’t trust you,” she says, her open hand steady between them. “That’s why I’ve made it hard. Because it feels hard for me.”  
  


His mouth twitches at the corners one time, the way it does when he’s about to cry.  
  


But he doesn’t. Just keeps staring at her, as he takes the keys from her hand – using his thumb and pointer to grasp the metal ring so that their hands don’t touch.  
  


“I think you should leave.” She turns back to the dark yard, wanting nothing more than to just escape to her bedroom and sleep. “I need some breathing room.”  
  


“If I leave, that’s it. I can’t go another fucking day wondering what this is – if you’re in it as much as I am. You know how I feel about you. What I want.”  
  


It’s not the multiple temper tantrums she’s endured over the last few weeks. Or the guilt trips. It’s not even the image of a smirking Russian blonde with her hands down his pants in some half-lit hotel room.  
  


It’s his last three words that break her.  
  


“One day,” she says so quietly that he leans in to hear her, “maybe you’ll care more about what I need than what you want.”  
  


She pauses, her eyes finding the moth again, its body taut and immobile in the glare of the light.  
  


“And then we can talk about what this--”she mimics his earlier gesture with her hand “--could be.”  
  


When the French doors slam shut so hard the house shakes a moment later, the moth’s wings flap once, before it tears free from the glass and makes a break for the moon.  
  



	2. September 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about another one? i've had a couple of glasses of wine so it feels like a fun idea for a Saturday night.

“I’m a bad fucking idea,” Scott had slurred that night in August at a small get-together at Cara’s house, his nose full of a strange perfume and the cigarette they’d shared. “Like really fucking terrible. You should leave me here and call it a dodged bullet.”

But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d asked him back to the detached mother-in-law suite at her parents’ house. They’d passed out almost immediately on top of the made bed, their clothes perfectly intact minus shoes. He’d woken up a few minutes before noon the next day in the fetal position, her short muscular legs wrapped around his thighs like a vise, her deep, even puffs of breath heating the spot between his shoulder blades.

Two hangover cheeseburgers and a trip to visit her at home in Tampa later, they were a thing. 

More than a month later, they’re still a thing. Sometimes it feels like a serious thing. And sometimes it doesn’t. For someone who’s a serial monogamist (or so say the half a dozen therapists he’s seen over the years), the ambiguity of their relationship – and his lack of stress over it – is odd. 

But he’s not dating anyone else, and he’s not cheating on her with his skating partner. This is obviously a perverse accomplishment, but given his track record, an accomplishment nonetheless.

Honestly, she seems good with their arrangement most days – mostly because he’s not doing much in life at the moment, which means his ability to hang out, travel on a whim and get day-drunk when she’s in the mood is strong to quite strong. 

(Their arrangement also works in large part because she’s leaving a ten-year marriage, so she’s not in any hurry to nail down their future. Which is to say…she’s still technically married. To say his mother remains unimpressed with essentially all aspects of this situation is the understatement of the last millennia. Upon breaking the news to her of his first upcoming visit to his girlfriend’s home in Tampa, he’d made the mistake of asking his mother to be “open” to his new relationship. She sniffed, turned back to the dishwasher she was unloading, and said he should more concerned with whether his girlfriend’s marriage is truly “closed.”)

But, whatever. 

Obviously, the fact she’s technically still married isn’t ideal. However, at the end of the day, she’s been separated from her husband for a long time and…well, she’s fun. And being with her is easy. 

Too easy, a tiny voice in his brain whispers – a voice that sounds an awful lot like his brother, Danny. 

Fuck off, he says to the voice, rolling over to plug his phone into his charger, before trying to get comfortable under the new, scratchy comforter. I genuinely like her. I’m not using her.

He repeats that last sentence five times silently until it feels like the truth.

The ceiling fan is doing this annoying rattling thing, and after laying there for ten minutes unable to fall asleep, he finally throws off the covers, and turns on the lamp. 

In the dull yellow light, he’s struck by how unfamiliar his own bedroom looks to him. But then again, it’s been a while since he’s been home. While parts of his house are still technically under construction, his bedroom is livable, and it’s better to stay here than with his mother at the moment. 

He studies the whirring fan, searching for the source of the rattle, before giving up and just tugging the chain to turn it off.

As he lays back down, he tries to nestle in and get comfortable. But the room now feels too warm and still without the ceiling fan, especially under the oppressive heat of the thick comforter. He thinks longingly of the soft, worn-in coverlet he’d had for years, which had been donated to a homeless shelter in favor of this new plush, hot-as-fuck beast of a blanket. 

Despite his protests that his old bedding was perfectly fine, his new girlfriend had insisted (a little aggressively, if he’s honest) that he needed to replace it. 

“New house, new phase of life, new sheets,” she’d said brightly one morning as they lounged in her living room in Tampa, her fingers flying over the screen of her iPad as she searched for the perfect Egyptian cotton thread count.

Tossing and turning a few times, before finally turning the fan back on – rattling be damned – he’s finally beginning to drift off when his phone vibrates loudly on the nightstand. 

“Hey,” he says sleepily, bringing it up to his ear, his voice rough from lack of use. 

“Hey baby boy!” The last syllable is drawn out two seconds too long for her to be sober. “Did I wake you up?”

“Uh, sort of.” 

Sitting up, he puts his girlfriend on speakerphone so he can see the time – it’s almost 1 a.m. The sound of drunken laughter drifts through the line – he recognizes one of the voices as Jen, who’s one of her workout partners. 

“You’re getting soft on me,” she laughs, and he hear the sound of muted conversation – a street address being recited. 

“Are you in an Uber headed home?” he asks. “If so, just text me when you get there safely. I’m going to try and go back to sleep.”

Scott knows he’s being short with her, and if she asks him why, he’s not sure he’s going to have a reasonable answer. 

“I wish I was with you right now,” she coos in a drunken whisper, completely oblivious to his attempt to cut the call short. “Do you wish I was there with you?”

Even though her mouth sounds very close to the speaker, he still very clearly hears a snort of laughter and kissing sounds from one of the other passengers.

Probably that douchelord from her gym (Cade? Cain? Cale?), who casually hooks up with Jen from time to time.  
All at once, he really just wishes he’d let the call go to voicemail. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow, ok? Be safe.” 

And he hangs up before she can say another word.

Twenty minutes later, the sweltering comforter lands in a crumpled pile on his laundry room floor.  
***********  
As a rule, he and Tessa have never hidden significant others from one another.

As a rule, though, the truth hasn’t always been shared immediately. Or even directly. 

Scott knows this time it’s different – the stakes and consequences are higher. Who his girlfriend is –more specifically, who she used to be to him – makes his omission worse. He also knows the timing looks suspect as hell – but it’s not like he’d planned the date and time of their reconnection, right? Or that they would reconnect at all. 

In the end, he believes she found out from her sister, Jordan, who had apparently seen a pic on Instagram from his trip to Tampa. Jordan had then contacted Cara for more information, who couldn’t exactly lie, given the nature of the photo in question and the fact that it’s clear he was in fact in Tampa. Cara had then called Scott and implored him to ask the friend of a friend who’d posted it to either make her account private or delete it altogether. 

She ended up doing both, but not before Jordan fucking Virtue sniffed the truth out of the ether.

So, while he doesn’t have concrete proof that Tessa knows about his new relationship, he assumes she does. 

And, his assumption is 100 percent confirmed by the way she’s just answered the phone for a pre-arranged tour planning discussion.

“Hi Scott,” she says, with the friendly detachment of a customer service agent who knows this call is being monitored for quality assurance.

But it’s not her tone of voice that tells Scott she knows he’s moved on and with whom he’s moved on.  
It’s her actual words.

Because for as long as he can remember (at least as long as they’ve had cell phones), she’s always answered his call as if they’re in the middle of ongoing conversation. 

*Laughing* “Oh my God, I just microwaved this frozen protein power bowl, and it smells exactly like armpits and the tears of an innocent. I’m not sure I should still eat it. Do you think I should eat it? Do frozen dinners go bad? It shouldn’t smell like dirty pits and despair, right?

*Heavy breathing* “I fucking hate jogging. I really, really do. What a sad activity for sad people.” 

*Thoughtfully, amid sounds of loud orchestral music in the background* One day we should see if we can finagle a sponsor event in the Downton Abbey castle. Did you know it has 300 rooms? *Pause* Oooohh! Why haven’t we ever thought about skating to something from this soundtrack?

So, yeah. ‘Hi Scott’ is an unmistakable departure.

“Hi Tessa,” he responds. Even to his own ears he sounds cautious.

“Let’s dive right in, ok?” she says crisply, with that same amiable yet indifferent tone. “I’ve got a hard stop in 30 minutes for a call with Covenant House.”

He can’t restrain himself. “Hard stop, eh?”

Her silence is deafening. 

Is she a fucking robot? Did I hallucinate the last 18 months of my life?

“Right,” he mutters when he can’t stand the awkwardness anymore. “Dive away.”

The purpose of today’s call is purely logistical – they need to nail down final dates for book signings and organize the Thank You Canada rehearsal schedule for the last two weeks of September leading up to the first show in Abbotsford. 

After precisely 22 minutes of well-mannered back-and-forth, their conversation grinds to a close. 

“That’s really all I had on my list,” she says again, after having already said something similar a few minutes prior. “Anything I’m forgetting?”

Fuck it.

“Hey,” he says sheepishly, already knowing this is the wrong time and place but unable to let this charade go on another minute. “I know you have another call, but I just wanted to say I should have tried to explain about the whole Jac--”

“You know what?” she interrupts, her voice now reaching alarming levels of politeness. “I think this entire thing has worked out just the way it was supposed to, honestly. No explanation needed. You’re good.”

“Are we good, though?” he persists, but without any real conviction. He knows damn well they are most certainly not ‘good.’ In any way, shape or form. “I just want the next few months to be a success.”

In the ensuing moment of silence, he hears the distant wail of an ambulance siren in the background on her end of the line. 

“We’re good, Scott,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Because the tour and our brand is the only ‘we’ there is.”

He figures as Tessa Virtue hard stops go, it’s one of her best of all time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I've got all but one chapter written. I can't wait to show y'all what's next. :)


	3. October 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens on the bus...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe the most fun chapter I’ve written yet? It’s up there...
> 
> Read it...not at work, ok? :)

Officially, they’d never lived together before.

 

But, practically, they had – for the final six months leading up to the Games and the four months following their gold medal wins.

 

Still, no amount of therapy, mental planning or awkward pre-tour negotiations could have fully prepared her for the reality of living with Scott within the confinement of a tour bus.

 

Particularly in this specific set of awkward-as-fuck circumstances. You know…with him dating his still-married, very first skating partner.

 

(Tessa struggles with who deserves sympathy the most in this situation. His girlfriend, who is more than likely being used by Scott as a means to deal with his excess of emotional baggage? Scott, who is so lost that he’s making life decisions based on whether it will make everything hurt a little less? Or herself, for being unable to stop loving him despite everything that’s gone on since July? It’s a depressing three-way toss-up.)

 

By the start of the tour, their relationship had been so highly compartmentalized that they’d effectively lived double lives. From the month of rehearsal leading up to the advent of the tour to the first few weeks on the road, their approach was the same each day they were together. They’d drain the moat and open the iron gates, gradually warming up to each other, so that by the time they made it to the ice to perform, it was all autopilot. The cast, crew and fans saw only the easy, gently teasing friendship off the ice and the trademark Virtue-Moir chemistry on ice.

 

During the finale of their second show, Scott had gripped the back of her neck and pulled her cheek in for a kiss as they’d clomped to the dressing areas with the rest of the skaters, and in response, she’d reached over and squeezed his arm in solidarity.

 

It was then that Tessa had pondered the idea that just existing throughout this tour might turn out to be the finest performance of her life – Olympic skates be damned.

 

But on their bus?

 

It had been a different story.

 

At first, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to make it. The tense silences, the stilted conversations, the overheard murmurs and laughter during phone calls with his new girlfriend. She’d imagined concocting an excuse for why it would be better for Patrick to share the bus with Scott, allowing her to move to the cast bus.

 

But there was no excuse she could come up with that wouldn’t raise eyebrows or ignite speculation of torrid drama.

 

The truth was, they’d stuck to their original plan to share one bus – even after everything blew up in July – because this arrangement gave them more privacy and space as the rightful headliners of the tour. She’d also internally blanched at the thought of spending night after night at a giant slumber party with the rest of the skaters for the next two months.

 

She fucking hated slumber parties. Always had.

 

So, she’d persevered. Been as polite and accommodating to him as possible. Used her headphones almost continuously in their shared open living areas. Read a lot in her bunk under the dull glare of the single-bulb lamp light to give him space.

 

The end of the second week of tour, though, a shift had happened. It hadn’t been a giant shift – no blazing fight or grand gesture to clear the air.

 

But a shift nonetheless.

 

“What is a fielder’s choice?” he’d called out calmly from the kitchenette, where he was leaning against the sink, his eyes glued to his phone as he’d typed out a text with his thumbs.

 

She’d been sitting on the couch watching an episode of Jeopardy on Netflix – an old favorite pastime of theirs in Montreal that she’d only just started up again because it had previously been untenable to do so alone.

 

A curly-haired professorial-looking contestant named Jon had repeated Scott’s words a moment later, earning himself $800.

 

Without taking time to overthink the implications, she’d glanced back at him briefly and then turned back to the game, and said casually, “You’d kill this category.”

 

A few quiet seconds went by, and then she had felt a gentle pat on her foot, as he’d motioned for her to scoot over to make room for him on the couch.

 

He’d stayed for the whole episode, each of them calling out answers like they were in some sort of weird time capsule back to her Montreal apartment. During this first shared episode on the bus, she’d been so careful not to touch him, though – with her feet, which had rested inches from his thigh, or with a brush of her arm or hand.

 

When the game had ended, she’d stretched and then begun to push to her feet, when he had reached out and held her ankle, his fingers gently circling the fine bones there.

 

“Don’t leave yet,” he’d said, his voice hopeful, if not a bit unsure. “Let’s watch one more.”

 

So they did. And the thaw commenced.

 

From that night forward on the bus, unless one of them had been too tired or under the weather, they’d watched Jeopardy together.

 

There are unspoken rules, though. Very strict and diligently followed unspoken rules.

 

They don’t discuss romantic relationships of any kind (current or past).

 

They don’t discuss the awful fight in July.

 

They don’t touch one another. (Which is illogical on many levels because they skate like they’re in love four nights a week. But…the bus is different. The bus is real.)

 

Tonight, as the Trans-Canada Highway between Brandon and Sault St. Marie flies by out of the window, they lounge in sweats with their feet propped up on the coffee table, a bowl of popcorn between them and a nearly empty bottle of red wine on the side table.

 

“Roger is going to take it,” Scott predicts confidently, draining the last of his wine as they wait for the final Jeopardy clue. “Look at that face – that’s a smug bastard right there. He wrote down his wager in like five seconds.”

 

Tessa snorts, as she reaches for another handful of popcorn. He’sadded extra salt (just the way she liked) and also a couple of handful of M&Ms. So good.

 

“The category is Russian Opera,” she retorts, talking around her mouthful of salty sweet goodness. “Roger lives in his mother’s basement and uses programming language as secret code to talk to his internet friends. This isn’t his time to shine.”

 

Scott laughs and rolls his eyes. “You’re picking Pam, aren’t you? She swept Literature of the 19th Century in Double Jeopardy and now you’re obsessed with her.”

 

“Shhhhh!” She waves her hand frantically as Alex Trebek’s face fills the screen and quickly turns up the volume.

 

They both listen intently as Alex reads a final clue so obscure, all of the contestants look either befuddled or mildly panicked (or somewhere in between).

 

When Pam and Roger both answer incorrectly, but Pam stillekes out the win by a mere $300, Tessa throws her arms up witha whoop of victory.

 

Which is when their third (and arguably most important) unspoken rule is broken.

 

Scott flicks her armpit hard, the slap of his fingernail landing onthe bare skin exposed by her tank top. She’s too shocked to move for a second, but then the intense sting registers, and with the encouragement of two glasses of wine, she retaliates.

 

Snapping her arms down, she leans over and flicks him hard right back, aiming for the sensitive skin on the inside of his knee.

 

Yelping, he grabs her wrists, pinning her hands securely to the couch.

 

“Ouch!” she cries with a realistic grimace of pain, which causes him to immediately release her hands.

 

Tessa feels bad about the stricken look on his face for all of a half a second, before she grins and leans in again with cat-like quickness and flicks him hard on the inside of the other knee.

 

He lunges toward her instantly, yelling, “Oh, it’s like that, is it?!” as he roars with laughter.

 

Like some kind of cartoon villain, though, he dives into nothing but air, as she sees him coming a mile away and slides off the couch in one smooth evasive maneuver.

 

But, when her knee clips the popcorn bowl, sending greasy chocolate carnage all over the couch and coffee table, her luck runs out.

 

Stunned, she stares for a split second at the mess, before trying to scramble to her feet to make a run for it. But her momentary hesitation costs her valuable time, and she’s suddenly aware of his fingertips pressing into her skin, as he hauls her up by her armpits, deftly sliding his hands down her arms to hold both of her wrists still and prevent further sneak attacks.

 

“So much for fighting fair, you little fraud,” he pants, laughing breathlessly as she struggles to move her arms.

 

“I guess that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” The words leave her mouth before she can stop the wine and adrenaline fueled brain fart that just may have set them back to square one.

 

Well, shit. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

 

The moment and the ensuing silence is made all the more uncomfortable because of how close they are, their faces now less than a foot apart. Still, he doesn’t back away, keeping his grip on her wrists steady.

 

Taking a deep breath and swallowing some pride, she looks up into his face and says, “Look, I shouldn’t have sai--”

 

“You have chocolate on your lip.” It’s as if he hasn’t even processed what she’s just said. His eyes lock in on her mouth before crawling slowly up to meet her gaze.

 

The pads of his thumbs press firmly into her pulse points on both wrists.

 

“Top or bottom lip?” she asks distractedly, their eyes still glued together as she runs her tongue quickly across both. “Did I get it?”

 

Scott shakes his head slightly, his expression glazed over. “Bottom, and no, you didn’t.”

 

Neither of them says anything for a few more seconds.

 

“You’re going to have to let go of my hand,” she murmurs, aware that his thumb has begun to rub a small circle on the inside of one of her wrists.

 

At the same time, as if choreographed, they lean fractionally closer together.  

 

The realization of what this is – what this will always be – rolls into Tessa’s consciousness in time with the slow, steady tilt of his head towards hers.

 

It’s addictive, exhilarating and awful – all in one fell swoop.

 

When he captures her lower lip between his, sucking gently, her brain shutters down – her base instincts and the sheer force of how much she’s missed him obscuring any remnants of good judgement left.

 

She tastes the salt of the popcorn on his mouth as she mimics his movement, before her tongue darts in, sweeping broadly into his mouth.

 

The hoarse noise he makes in the back of his throat when he meets her there makes her stomach flip, and they deepen the kiss as his hands finally let go of her wrists and coast up her arms to cup under her jaw.

 

After a minute, everything becomes messy and urgent, tinged with an undercurrent of aggression. Teeth, lips, tongues tangle and nip in a delicious, almost painful parry.

 

One of his hands still holds her face, while the other slides down her back, his fingers creeping underneath her tank top to touch her bare skin. Lower those fingertips drift, until she can feel them slip beneath the soft material of her yoga pants, sweeping back and forth, the pad of his middle finger brushing the top of her ass.

 

A visible shudder runs through him when he realizes she isn’t wearing anything underneath.

 

“Jesus, Tess,” he hisses, as he lowers his mouth to suck on the soft skin where her jaw and neck meet, leaving a trail of wet kisses to her collarbone.

 

His nose nudges the strap of her tank top once, and she looks down to see his eyes roll back to look directly at her, as if asking for permission.

 

She jerks the strap down her shoulder in one swift motion. Allthat stands now between her and half-way naked is a lacy bralette.

 

“Unngghhh,” she moans incoherently, as his mouth closes over her lace-covered breast, sucking as much as he can get into his mouth. The chafing of the material against her nipple sends a shot of warmth straight down her core that pools in between her hips.

 

Dying to touch more of him, her hand falls to his waist, kneading the taut muscles there, before wiggling underneath his t-shirt to ghost over the hard planes of his abs. The slightly bristly hairs at the top of his happy tail rub tantalizingly against the base of her palm as he grunts and curves his hips, his hardness pressing against her.

 

But just as his mouth closes over the other breast, his phone begins to ring where it’s tucked into the front pocket of his sweatpants.

 

More accurately stated, his phone begins to play – the ringtone achorus of a song she’s heard many times over the course of three weeks. She’d conditioned herself to tune it out after the first few days on the bus. Now, every word is clearly enunciated in her brain.

 

Watchin’ that blonde hair swing  
To every song I’d sing  
You were California beautiful    
I was playin’ everything but  _cool_

 

Their hands drop to their sides immediately, and she backs up two full steps, yanking her tank top back in place hurriedly.

 

“Hey,” he says roughly, his eyes boring into hers helplessly, and she wants to laugh at the idea that there’s anything he can say right now that would stop her from feeling two inches tall and like the dumbest basic bitch on the planet. “This is--”

 

His voice dies when the tinny ringtone starts again. Acid has begun to flow freely from her stomach to her mouth now, and suddenly, she’s sure that anywhere is better than standing here listening to the sound of his girlfriend’s custom ringtone.

 

“I’m going to read,” she says in tone so calm, it’s unsettling to even her, given what they’ve just almost done.

 

Turning, she walks toward her bunk, waiting, teeth clenched, to hear his usual hushed greeting of, “Hey Jack.”  

 

But, that doesn’t happen. He says nothing at all.

 

When she climbs into bed, she doesn’t read. She doesn’t scroll through Instagram. She doesn’t text her sister. She doesn’t put on her headphones and blast music.

 

Instead, she lays there and listens to that God-awful ringtone play three more times in a row.

 

Answer it, she screams at him silently, tears running sideways into her ears. Answer the fucking phone so I can keep letting you go.

 

He doesn’t answer, though. Just finally silences the phone mid-ring as his footsteps retreat in the direction of his bunk. Rolling onto her side, she falls asleep with a wet tissue clutched in her hand, lulled by the soothing hum of wheels on pavement.

 

*************

  
At first Tessa thinks the light flickering in the crack of her curtain is lightning. She lays there for a minute, listening for the sound of rain, but when all she hears is road noise, she sits up and quietly parts the black material to peek out.

 

The light is coming from the living area. Straining her ears, she can make out the faint sound of Mario Kart (Coconut Mall track, if she had to guess…it’s his favorite) being played on the Nintendo Wii Scott had brought aboard.

 

Lifting her charging phone closer to her face, she registers that it’s 2:19 a.m.

 

Pulling the curtain back in place, she lays back down and closes her eyes, willing herself to sleep again.

 

But 15 minutes later, she knows it’s a lost cause.

 

Slipping the hot pink rubber band off her wrist, she pulls her hair into a messy wad, and then crawls out of her bunk, padding silently around the corner.

 

He’s slouched shirtless on the couch, staring fixedly at the TV – hair wild like he went to bed with it sopping wet.

 

Even in the dark room, lit only by the tiny neon colored cars racing across the screen, she takes in his red-rimmed, puffy eyes and flat expression.

 

Had he been crying?

 

He doesn’t say a word as she sits down beside him, her forearms resting on the tops of her thighs as she laces her fingers together and watches the race on the TV progress.

 

They sit like that for a few minutes, him playing and her watching. After he runs out of lives and the game is over, he tosses the controller to the end of the couch and sits back, his hands covering his face for a moment before they drop to his lap.

 

“I can’t sleep anymore,” he says finally, his voice scratchy. “Well...at least not since the summer. It got so bad that I had to get a prescription the week before we left for tour. But, even half a pill makes me feel like a zombie the next day.”

 

He looks down at his hands and begins to pick at the cuticle of his right thumb. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

 

His fingers continue to work, pulling the skin around the nail until she’s sure at any minute it’ll begin to bleed.

 

She unlaces her fingers and reaches over, laying her left hand over both of his, forcing them to still.

 

The Mario Kart theme song plays softly on repeat, the screen queued for a player to begin a new race.

 

“I don’t know how to fix everything,” he says quietly after a few minutes, staring at their joined hands. “I’m not sure I can fix it. Or that you even want me to fix it.”

 

The corners of him mouth twitch convulsively. “I just know that being with you and being without you both seem like shitty options most days.”

 

His head drops fractionally for a second, before he turns to meet her eye. “But, fuck if I don’t still need you, Tess.”

 

Making up her mind takes all of five seconds after that.

 

She carefully extracts her hand as she stands, running it gently through his hair.

 

“C’mon,” she replies, cupping his cheek for a minute before turning in the direction of her bunk. “Let’s go to bed.”

 

He follows her wordlessly, stepping aside when they get there to let her crawl in first.

 

In the dark quiet of her bunk, she pulls her thin tank over her head and peels her yoga pants down as he clambers in, the two of them forced to lay on their sides to fit in the narrow space.

 

His leg slides in between hers, his hands smoothing up and down the outside of her thigh. Dipping his head, he begins to suckle at her neck softly, working his way up until his nose presses into the nook where her jaw meets her ear.

 

He spends what feels like hours there, laying soft kisses up and down her neck and jaw, before taking possession of her mouth again, his tongue surging in to play with hers. Head swimming, she traces the muscles in his bare back, reveling in the warm, smooth expanse of his chest pressed against her.

 

Finally, he shifts back slightly, slowly moving the hand on her leg across her hip to brush two fingers down her bare front.

 

Whimpering, she cants towards his touch, knowing how much it turns him on to see her edgy and desperate for him.

 

“Love you like this,” he murmurs, as his pointer and middle finger dip inside, petting her with the perfect amount of pressure before pushing inside her folds. “Tell me you need this like I do.”

 

Her head lurches back as he begins to scissor his fingers sharplyin and out, stretching on the upstroke to scrape against that magical sensitive spot inside her walls.

 

“Please,” she groans, aware vaguely that she’s leaving scratches on his back that will leave a mark as he works her relentlessly with his fingers.

 

“Please what?” he breathes, circling her nub with his thumb as she begins to crawl toward release.

 

“I need you.” She shudders as the words fall out, an unbearably intense pressure building in her abdomen.

 

And then abruptly, his fingers are gone.

 

She cries out once at the loss, her hips still rocking futilely toward his hand, which is now jerkily shoving his sweatpants down his hips.

 

When he enters her body, kneeling between her legs on his haunches and slightly stooped under the low overhang of the bunk, he reaches up and seizes her by the chin, forcing her to meet his gaze as he uses the other hand to hold her firmly by the hip.

 

“Watch,” he says roughly, and her eyes obediently follow his to the place where they’re joined, their bodies moving away and then together like magnets. “Watch us.”

 

The hand on her chin releases when she nods slightly, before trailing to pinch and pull on each sensitive nipple before grasping her other hip.

 

Back and forth he works her while on his knees, moving her on him with a steady, persistent rhythm.

 

“No,” he grunts, grabbing her face again as her cheek drifts to lay on her pillow, returning her eyes to his.

 

Faster he moves, picking up the pace and intensity to such a degree that her head feels like it’s going to explode off of her body at any minute. “Don’t shut your eyes,” he hisses, his words almost angry. “I want you to watch us. Watch me make you come.”

 

And then his thumb is strumming her again, moving in time with his thrusts as she falls apart, her eyes slamming shut involuntarily.

 

“Fuck yes.” He grits out the words on an exhale as his movements become wild and erratic. “Look at me. Give me all of it, Tess. Every bit of it.”

 

He slams into her twice more as she returns to earth, freezing at the deepest point, his chest and core muscles taut and gleaming with sweat in the near darkness.

 

Then, with a short cry, he lets go too, slumping against her in the aftermath.

 

They lay like that for a long time, his face turned to the side, cheek resting between her breasts, her legs wrapped around his hips and her arms holding him around the middle.

 

Finally, he sits up, patting around until he finds her discarded yoga pants. Without looking at her, he taps the inside of one of her knees, nudging her hips into a butterfly, before gently cleaning her with them.

 

In a lifetime of intimate moments between them, it might be the most tender, gut-wrenching one she can remember.

 

Before she can formulate a single coherent, meaningful thing to say, though, he swings his legs off the bed, pulling on his sweatpants and pulling the curtain of the bunk back.

 

He slides out, careful to toss the dirty pants into the laundry bag she has propped against her bathroom door.

 

“Now’s the part where I tell you that I love you,” he says quietly, his eyes watching her so closely through the slit in the bunk curtain that she wants to yank it closed. “But then, you knew that already. Right, Tess?”

 

Without waiting for an answer, he turns and walks away.

 

A half hour later, she reaches for her headphones as the sound of familiar low laughter drifts from what seems like a million miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Hate me? Come tell me about it.


	4. November 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oshawa and Nashville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Taps microphone self-consciously*
> 
> Is this thing on? If so, for the five of you left who still care about this fic, thanks again for hanging with me. :)

_Nov. 1, 2019_

“Answer your damn phone, or turn it on silent,” Patrick grunts, reflexively tilting his Wii controller as he steers his Toad in a blue coupe through a rainbow-lit turn. “That ringtone is giving me diabetes.”

They’re an hour into a short road trip to Oshawa – this evening’s tour stop – after choosing to skip the movie with the rest of the cast on the other bus and play video games on Scott and Tessa’s bus instead.

“I have to watch you take multiple kissy face selfies every morning to send to ‘Lizzy Lou Who’, Chiddy.” Scott silences the phone with one hand, his Yoshi on the Mach Bike accelerating down a straightaway, blowing past Patrick. “This is not a fight you want to pick, chief.”

“Cheesy country song ringtones for your girlfriend were lame as hell in grade 9, _chief,”_ Patrick counters, before his tone grows solemn. _“_ Help me help you break this cycle of self-harm.”

Scott chances it and takes one hand off his controller again, aiming a middle finger vaguely to his right, while pretending that Chiddy isn’t 193% correct in his observation.

Suddenly, Patrick shifts his weight and leans his slight frame into a hairpin bend, beginning to curse fluently under his breath as he tries and fails to pass Scott’s Yoshi in a last-ditch effort to steal a race he’s never led.

“Suck it!” Scott crows a few seconds later as his bike crosses the checkered finish line first, waving the controller around like a conductor’s baton while he does a victory running man dance. “That’s two out of three, which means the next round of drinks are on you. And by drinks I mean the most expensive scotch I can locate at the bar.”

Flopping dejectedly back on the couch, Patrick lifts one hip and fishes out Scott’s silenced cell phone from underneath his ass.

“Do something about this,” he says, grimacing at the lit home screen, which is clearly littered with notifications. “I’d start with the text on top.”

He stands and hands the phone to Scott, and then walks to the kitchenette, humming the MarioKart theme song softly as Scott unlocks the home screen.

And does a double-take.

The text on top isn’t from his girlfriend as he expects. It’d be a hell of a lot simpler if it was.

Ten days have passed since their bout of quasi-angry sex. Ten days of eerily calm silence. Ten days of careful tiptoeing. Ten days of straight up faking it in all settings except for the bus, where they’d basically just politely carried on as if the other didn’t exist.

Which on one hand had been so suffocating at points that he’d considered admitting the truth to Patrick and begging him to switch busses, but on the other hand had been so expected he’d become almost numb to the pain.

He looks down at the text again, staring at it for at least 30 seconds, trying to read into her word choice for any hidden meaning or an advanced indication of her mood.

_Since we’re an hour and a half ahead of schedule…want to run with me when we get parked?_

He starts and deletes four different replies, before settling on, “Sure.” Pulling on a long-sleeve Dri Fit shirt, a pair of lightweight joggers and his runners, he tries to pretend that his churning gut is due to hunger and not because he’s nervous as shit.

Half an hour later, the bus grinds to a halt near a heavily wooded area with a few walking trails – trails that, for all intents and purposes, appear to be completely abandoned, which isn’t totally surprising considering it’s late morning in the middle of a work week.

He stretches under a covered area with benches and picnic tables, watching the other skaters trudge off of the cast bus in the direction of the arena that’s a half a block south. Lowering his upper body slowly until his nose almost touches his kneecap, his hands reach for his ankle when the tops of black and white running shoes appear under his eye line.

Rolling up quickly, he finds her standing, one arm over her head and bent as she stretches a tricep. A fine dusting of goosebumps covers her pale midriff, which is exposed by a cropped pale yellow hoodie and tight black Adidas leggings. Her dark hair is pulled up into a messy bun, the freckles on her cheeks and nose standing in sharp relief in the absence of makeup, save for her lips, which are shiny with a coat of lip balm.

As he flicks his eyes in her direction, deliberately avoiding her deep green eyes, delicious smelling mouth and ripped abs, he ponders for at least the millionth time how much simpler his life might have been if shoving his tongue in her mouth hadn't been his first, most basic instinct since the age of 16.  

“You ready to go?” she asks, bending slightly from side to side for a minute before beginning to bounce in place. “I stretched on the bus.”

He nods silently, surreptitiously watching her out of the corner of his eye as they walk to the trail entrance.

They take off at a trot, awkwardly trying to gauge the other’s pace for a few minutes before gradually falling into rhythm, their strides moving steadily along the packed gravel path.

All the anxiety he’d felt upon reading her text message invitation dissolves somewhere along the first quarter mile as he listens to the soothing cadence of her deep, even breathing – a sound as familiar to him as his mother’s voice.

After a while, he senses her pace is slowing slightly, and sure enough, she stops a few meters later at a clearing with pair of metal benches separated by a large trashcan. Escaped, sweaty tendrils from her bun cling haphazardly to her nape and the squadron of baby hairs fan wildly along her hairline in the breeze.

It strikes him how painfully young she looks right now – red-faced, hair all over the place, with her eyes flashing like she’s two seconds from either cracking a totally inappropriate joke or cutting him to the core with a perfectly placed barb.

Scott swallows, as she shifts from foot to foot, suddenly highly uncomfortable as her gaze lands and locks in on him.

“Wanna stop here for a minute?” she puffs out, her breath visible in the crisp air as she gestures toward the set of benches. “I need a water break.”

Fishing her collapsible water canteen out of her hoodie pocket, she takes two long pulls and then passes it to him automatically, a bemused look on her face as he takes it with a shrug and gulps some down.

“Some things never change, eh?” Her voice is light and teasing – her genuinely sweet tone more welcome and refreshing than the extra water she’s brought because she knows he can never be bothered to remember his own.

“Apparently not.”

They smile at each other tentatively for a few seconds, both of them still breathing heavily.

“What happened on the bus a few weeks ago is on me,” she says without preamble, her eyes fixed on him. “It was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

Weirdly, the sudden onset of this conversation feels like a good thing – not only because they desperately need to clear the air and try to find emotionally neutral common ground – but also because it eliminates his ability to overthink what comes next.

Walking over to one of the benches in the clearing, he sits down, stretching his legs out in front of him, clasping his hands behind his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I kissed you first,” he replies evenly. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

She looks at him for a few more seconds with an impenetrable expression before plopping down on the bench next to him, stretching her legs out in perfect symmetry with his.

“I’m just going to be blunt here.” Her fingers pick at a stray thread of her leggings. “That night made me feel awful – on a number of different levels. I just…it can’t happen again, Scott.”

Turning to look out at the porous blanket of barren trees off of the running path, she pauses, her mouth pressed flat in a firm line.  

“I can tell you care about her.” Her eyes slide to his face, and then back out to the horizon, her face settling into a calm, still mask. “And, honestly, I think that’s a good thing. It’s helpful. It means that whatever we thought we felt wasn’t meant to be. It – I don’t know – I guess it draws a clear line around what we _are_ meant to be, you know?” 

A dull, slow throb begins in the center of his left rib cage, and he realizes after a minute that he’s rubbing the spot, fatigue radiating from every cell of his muscles – fatigue that has very little to do with today’s jog. 

God, but he’s fucking tired of worrying. About her. About their partnership. About what may happen. About what may never happen. Even if he’s lucky enough to live another 70 years, he knows for certain he’ll never not be frustrated and bitter at how everything has become so complicated. So fucking hard.

Sure, Katerina was a huge mistake. But the truth is – their equilibrium was off kilter long before that. Damn near the minute they coasted into Canadian airspace in late February, and the Olympic bubble popped, tiny fissures in the foundation of their relationship had quickly escalated into gaping gorges. She’d curled inward, and no matter how hard he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to bridge the gap to reach her.

And now…well now, he just wants to be normal. To have a normal relationship based on nothing more than mutual attraction and a desire to enjoy someone’s company.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Tess. There are a million things I wish I’d done differently,” he says quietly, forcing himself to look directly at her. “But, you’re right – I do care about her. And I think I owe it to myself to see where it goes. I just…obviously, I never wanted to--”

Tessa holds up her hand to silence him, discreetly dipping her head as she lifts her shoulder, wiping her face on her hoodie.

 _Sweat or tears?_ He wonders, watching her bun shift as her cheek grazes the top of her shoulder again and struggling mightily with himself to resist touching her.   

“No more apologies needed,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, as she pushes to her feet and begins jogging in place. “I just want to move forward. With as little drama as possible.”

She pauses thoughtfully, not looking at him, but out at the empty, stark expanse of woods off the trail.

“But, I do want your word on one thing. And, I’ll give you my word too.”

He watches her closely in profile, lingering briefly on the loose eyelash resting on her cheek. His stomach clenches when she takes two almost imperceptible, but deliberate, steps away from him.

“Only honesty going forward.” Tessa turns to face him, her expression both uncharacteristically vulnerable and resolute. “No more hiding the truth from each other.”

Their gazes catch and hold for a few seconds. Then, he inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment.

With a single nod, she smiles tentatively again, before turning to the trail, pacing herself a few strides in front of him as they jog back the way they came.

**********************

_Nov. 18, 2018_

The coat check line just outside of the hotel ballroom is now at least 30 people deep.

There had been no one in it five minutes ago when Scott had last checked from inside the ballroom, mentally counting down the seconds until he could get the hell out of here.  

With a sigh, he diverts around the queue and heads toward the men’s room. Waiting in that hellacious line and then making the 20-minute Uber ride back his hotel without pissing first would be the final shitty decision in a week filled with shitty decisions.

Pushing through the heavy wooden door of the washroom, he’s relieved to find it empty – a true blessing considering he can’t bring himself to make surface-level small talk with one more person.

Not. One. More. Person.

Between the skating show itself, the VIP meet and greet afterwards, and the dinner and reception that’s lasted until – he glances at his wristwatch – almost midnight, he’s all talked out.

Especially since he’s handled each and every conversation all on his own, with Tessa holding court on the opposite side of the ballroom.

 _I should have told her_ , he thinks for at least the tenth time, making quick use of the urinal and washing up at the lavatory sink. _Tonight wouldn’t have been so miserable if I’d just told her._

Nothing to do about that now, unfortunately. The misery that has been this entire night is completely, 100 percent his fuck-up to own.  

At this point, the best-case scenario for the remainder of the evening is that his luck will extend just long enough for him to escape the premises without a last word or run-in with his business partner.

In all honesty, though, tonight was probably destined to be pretty effing miserable no matter what. But, it had been especially miserable because he’d broken his word to Tessa. In a very petite, blonde way.

Broken his word again, that is.

Because he’s pretty sure that allowing her to stay when she’d climbed in his bunk at 3 a.m. not one week after their big come-to-Jesus in Oshawa, smelling like red wine and the coconut body oil she’s currently obsessed with, had also counted as breaking his word.

It had definitely counted when he’d returned the favor and climbed in her bunk three days after that.

Scott’s been therapized enough to know that it isn’t just the sex in and of itself that’s been damaging. It’s the way in which the act has been carried out each time. The way they love and punish each other with equal measure, using their bodies as both weapons to injure and splints to bind.

And then the artificial normalcy that follows. The distant politeness. The carefully curated back-and-forth in front of their friends.

So, the fact that he hadn’t told Tessa that his girlfriend was coming to this benefit in Nashville and would be meeting not only her, but their friends and professional contacts too?

Not good. Inexcusable even.

He’d planned to tell her. Honest to God, he had. But, unfortunately for everyone involved, he’d waited too long, putting it off anytime there was an opening for him to bring it up until all of the openings were gone.

By the time they’d been warming up backstage, he’d rationalized to himself that telling her right before they took the ice was a terrible idea, all the way around.

And, they’d skated just fine, with their usual intensity and chemistry, which, of course neither of them discuss, try to rein in nor analyze anymore – something that is both a relief and weirdly upsetting at the same time.

When they’d settled at their meet and greet table afterwards, he’d felt Tessa’s eyes track his to the corner of the room, where his girlfriend had stood, water bottle clutched in one hand, the other wrapped around the strap of her purse nervously, as she’d chatted with his mother.

There’d been two beats of silence, before she’d chuckled hollowly and then said, in a near whisper, more to herself than to him, “Right. Got it.”

And for the rest of the night, she’d frozen him out.

Oh, she hadn’t been rude to him. She’s much too professional for that. And proud.

No, she’d just full-scale retreated, to the point that every interaction with her had been déjà vu of the worst parts of 2009, when he’d been convinced she might actually legitimately hate him.

So, yeah. Tonight has been deeply fucking unpleasant to say the least. 

Shaking off the awkward memories of the last few hours, he pushes the door of the washroom open with his forearm, turning to toss the used paper towel into the trash behind him.

Just a few more minutes of luck – that’s all he needs. A whole city of distance between them is within sight.

Of course, it’s then that his luck runs out.

(A familiar predicament when it comes to Tessa Virtue.)

As he steps into the carpeted hallway, the door of the ladies washroom right in front of him swings open, and she steps out, her back to him.

For a second, Scott thinks he's somehow, some way dodged the bullet. That maybe she’ll just walk back to the dance floor and continue her relentless pursuit of being the seemingly happiest drunk on the planet, as she’s done basically the whole night.

(A particularly low point had come when she’d trolled him and his date by dancing seductively up to them on the dance floor, her eyes hard and smile fake. Hips swaying, she’d blithely chatted over her shoulder with a few other skaters and friends as she’d danced, never making direct eye contact, before finally shimmying away with a smirk on the pretense of a fresh drink.)

But, almost as if she smells him, her dark head suddenly whips around. She stops mid-stride, taking stock of him as her mouth curls into a bitter smile.

“Well, hey there,” she says quietly, her tone venomous. “Look who it is. Were you hoping to sneak out of here without saying goodbye?”

He takes in the dull flush that’s spread across both of her cheeks and down her neck. Then, he meets her eyes, which are glassy and bright.

“Let’s not do this here,” he answers in a low voice, shifting his eyes past to make sure no one is loitering. “I know you're angry, and I get why. But tonight isn’t the night to have this conversation. Let’s not make this situation worse and say things that will make it hard to finish the tour civilly.”

“No, by all means let's keep it civil,” she hisses, the happy façade she’d held tightly in place all night snapping clean in half, as she leans closer into his space. “You know what, Scott? Fuck you. You’re an asshole. A cowardly fucking asshole.”

“Yeah, we’re not doing this here,” he repeats quietly but firmly, keeping his eyes away from hers. His heart is pounding now, stomach beginning to roll with nausea – the way it always does on the rare occasions their fights get heated.

He takes one step around her, careful to keep his distance physically. “We just need some space and time apart. I know you’re--”

“You know I’m what?” Tessa takes a step toward him, eyes glinting dangerously. “You know I’m tempted to walk back to the ballroom and tell your new girl that you made me come so hard three nights ago it gave me a migraine? Is that what you were going to say? Because I’m tempted, Scott. Really tempted.”

She’s close enough now that he can smell the white wine on her breath and the sharp notes of her perfume. 

“I won’t do it, though,” she concedes, mouth quirking up in a cold smile again. “Over the last decade, I’ve never, ever sold you out. Do you know why?”

He doesn’t respond, just keeps his gaze down the hallway, determinedly assessing the coat check line that somehow seems to have grown even longer.

“Because I always put you first.” She steps back, looks down at her dress and smooths a non-existent wrinkle, before calmly flicking a piece of lint. “Just like you always put you first. We’re the same that way.”

Then, without waiting for a response, she turns and strides back down the hall.

Stomach churning full tilt now, he considers whether he needs to revisit the men’s room, before admitting to himself that vomiting up the five drinks he’s sucked down tonight wouldn’t make him feel a single bit better.

So, he follows her, staying three or four paces behind until she stops suddenly around the corner, face transforming into an electric smile as she warmly thanks one of the VIP benefit sponsors for their support.

All without missing a fucking beat.

It’s classic Tessa Virtue. Dogged composure at all times for all reasons – no matter what.

He lowers his head and powers by them, until he’s once again at the back of the coat check queue. Tessa’s telltale laugh – big and bright – rings out loudly once before it fades steadily into the oblivion of the crowd now streaming from the ballroom.

“Still no coats, huh?”

He startles slightly, as the petite blonde with the mischievous smile slides herself underneath his arm. Her head tilts, as she looks up at him and brushes a quick kiss under his chin.

But for all her overt cheerfulness, he still can’t miss the odd set to her mouth right now…like she’s chewing on words that she wants to, but can’t or won't, say.

“No coats yet,” he answers lightly, squeezing her shoulder and kissing the top of her head reassuringly. “The line was long, and then I got caught up. Sorry about that.”

With strained smile, she meets his eyes briefly before turning back to the queue in front of them.

“Just as long as you don’t stay caught up,” she murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done an absolute sh*t job at responding to your comments on this fic. In my defense, it's about all I can do to just write the thing. Real life is a lot right now. 
> 
> In any case, it's great to hear from you, so leave me a note if you're so inclined. (Yes, even those of you who were rightfully appalled at how I ended the last chapter. LOL. Gotta write the ugly stuff too, you know?)


	5. December 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a December night in Tampa...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these two idiots has to be brave enough to begin breaking the cycle of dysfunction, right? Three guesses on who. 
> 
> In celebration of the weekend (which TOOK ITS DAMN TIME GETTING HERE), enjoy this quick fun little chapter...happy Friday, friends!

_December 2018_

“Do you know her?” the handsome man beside Tessa asks curiously, following her gaze to the dirty blonde who’s weaving through the crowd outside the velvet roped VIP area. From the raised dais where their exclusive table is centrally situated, she has a perfect view of the woman’s petite, curvy form now walking intently towards the bar.

_Mothereffer._

_It’s really her. Which means, odds are – he’s here too._

The blonde is wearing a short black dress, her large, snow globe-like boobs spilling out of the sweetheart neckline, the gauzy skirt flitting carelessly across the tops of two very tan, very muscular thighs – thighs that are bookended by a pair of distressed hot pink cowboy boots.

The boots are an atrocity. Like some prop from some embarrassing music video about beer, a tailgate and ass-shaking country girls sung by some douchelord white boy who thinks twanging over a hip hop drum track is making some definitive cultural statement. 

So, yeah. Without a doubt, Scott loves the boots. Probably wants her to keep them on while they--

_Nopenopenopenopenopenope._

Tessa quickly swallows the hysterical laughter threatening to claw its way out of her throat at the absurdity of this situation. How is this really – in real fucking life – happening right now?

While Post Malone’s “Better Now” plays in the crowded bar, no less.

Because of course. Naturally. That song would most definitely be the soundtrack to this clown show.

“Yeah, I do know her actually,” she answers with a deceptively easy laugh. “She’s Scott’s girlfriend…she lives here, but they travel a lot. Crazy coincidence though…out of all the bars in Tampa, eh?”

She gives the much-too-young-but-much-too-fun man a flirty wink and raises her glass to her lips, the burn of the vodka akin to the gratifying pinch and sting of sore muscles the day after a brutal workout.

He raises his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth lifting in a cute smirk.

“You’re giving Tampa too much credit, babe. This town is a shithole…one of our rookies makes a list of bars and clubs worth hitting for every road series. Do you know how many were on the list for tonight?”

He pauses for dramatic effect.

“One.  And, I think we agree it’s a weak effort. Apologies again for the mechanical bull.”

Tessa laughs in response and shrugs helplessly. He’s right. Tampa is…not awesome. For a number of different reasons.

Somehow, though, she’d convinced herself that she could manage a 36-hour, in-and-out trip here without flagging on Scott’s radar. Because as tempting as it is to imagine the exact facial expression he’d make if she ran into him with the insanely sexy Viking who currently has his thigh pressed to hers, Tessa fully recognizes what this situation would look like to Scott.

How she’d look.

When the truth is just that she’s casually dating a guy who, like her, travels all the time for work and whose calendar is booked months in advance. This is literally the only date they could make work for a meet-up until after Christmas, which would have been a whole extra month from now.

And negative Ghost Rider to that.

She’d sacrificed and lived like an ascetic monk (ok…not in all ways, but in many ways) for most of her natural born life. She isn’t putting everyone else’s (see: Scott Moir’s) needs and feelings before her own anymore. If she’d learned anything from the last four months, it’s that her own happiness is an honest-to-God choice. Her choice. There is no ‘we’ anymore when it comes to personal fulfillment and emotional equilibrium.

So, here she is. In godforsaken Tampa. And apparently at the same bar with Scott and the woman wearing those disturbing boots.

The beautiful Viking next to her leans in, his expression earnest as one of his large, warm hands covers her knee, his thumb stroking the delicate skin in the bend of her leg. Goose bumps erupt up her arms, and she shivers slightly.

“Do you want to text him and see if they want to join us?” he asks quietly, his blue eyes finding and holding her gaze as he smiles reassuringly, sending a distinct message.

 _I believe what you’ve told me._ _Give me a chance to show you that this could be ok._

The pang inching its way through her ribs is equal parts regret and gratitude.

“Maybe in a bit,” she says, covering the hand on her knee with her own, their fingers intertwining. “Sweet of you to offer, but I don’t want to share your attention just yet.”

Their waitress appears suddenly with the next round and as her date turns for their drinks, Tessa notices her phone, which is face down on the table, vibrating furiously.

She flips it over and reads the two texts on her locked screen, sent 20 minutes apart.

_Nathan MacKinnon? Look at you robbing the cradle. But I guess hate the game not the player._

_I see you ignoring your phone on the table right in front of you. Are you staying nearby?_

The condensation from her near-empty drink glass coats her palm as she lifts it once more to her lips, shaking a few ice cubes into her mouth. She powers the phone off and drops it into her bag stowed underneath the table.

“Nate,” she calls, shifting the ice cubes into her cheek.

He turns at the sound of his name just as their waitress melts back into the dark of the lounge.

“Have I told you I’m glad we did this?” she asks with a smile, forcing herself to focus intently on just him – the slope of his nose, his full pink mouth, the way his strawberry blonde Disney prince hair reflects the dim light. “Because I am. Really glad.”

A surprised but pleased grin spreads across his face as she leans in and kisses him softly. One of her hands lifts to touch his cheek, their lips gently and chastely overlapping with a near-perfect amount of heat and pressure.

“I want more,” he murmurs playfully after a moment, the hand on her hip moving up the ridge of her spine to tangle in her hair.

 _Happiness_ , she thinks clearly. _I choose to be happy._

She parts her lips in answer against his and smiles again at the rumbly noise deep in his chest. As he deepens the kiss, his tongue tangling with hers, she thinks that this feels a lot like sinking into a five-star hotel bed – warm, luxurious and yet distinctly not home.

The almost melted ice cubes shift from their hidden spot in her cheek mid-kiss, and he lets out a yelp of laughter when they land on his tongue, the bristles of his short beard scraping lightly against her chin.

“What else are you hiding over there, you little sneak?”

She sucks hard on his bottom lip before pulling back, keeping her eyes squarely on his face, squarely within their little bubble. 

“Hate the game, not the player,” she shoots back with another tinkling laugh.

Then, still grinning at him, she reaches for her fresh vodka tonic, her hand unconsciously but instinctively lifting to wipe her mouth dry of his kiss.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you notice I tinkered with the chapter count? Those who followed along with Spare Keys in real time...show me your shocked faces. 
> 
> Anyway. I'm adding a few unexpected chapters. So...next up: we're going to Mallorca. Buckle up. :)


	6. Christmas 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas. Home Alone. Danny Moir. If you've avoided this fic b/c some of the other chapters have been brutal (sorry not sorry), you're in a safe(r?) space here. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you start blowing me up in the comments...I know I promised you Mallorca. And Mallorca you will get...just not in this chapter. I realized I had a few more stories to tell before we get there...and those of you who read Spare Keys or my other sadly unfinished fic know that I'm a sucker for a Christmas/Holiday scene. Just a total asshole for the complex family and personal dynamics that the holiday season bring...and the ways we all have really specific, visceral memories attached to this time of year -- good and bad.
> 
> Fair warning, if you're one of the 16 people walking the earth who somehow hasn't seen Home Alone...I'm sorry? For the fact that some of this may fly over your head, and for the fact that you've been deprived this seminal cinematic masterpiece in your life. Fix that, ok? For you. 
> 
> So, without further ado...jump into Scott's brain for Christmas Eve 2018.

**_Christmas Eve 2018 -- Ilderton, Ontario_ **

“Buzz…your girlfriend…WOOF!”

A small square throw pillow bounces directly off of Scott’s nose and onto the floor of his parents’ basement, where he and Danny are watching The Greatest Holiday Movie of Our Time™ on their dad’s pride and joy early 2000s-era TV.

“Why are you the way that you are?” Danny asks in a perfect Michael Scott voice as he jabs the volume on the remote laying between them on the couch. “Jesus, I get it. You know every line – even the unfunny ones. I don’t want to try and contemplate how many times you’ve watched this movie to be this fucking annoying.”  
  
“Dude, I was basically the same age as Kevin McCallister when this movie came out.” Scott takes another long pull from his beer, grinning at his older brother. “This movie represents an important moment in time for me. Let me live my life.”

“Live your life with less talking out loud.”

Danny snags the abused throw pillow out of the air just before it pegs him in the face in retaliation, expertly holding his beer high above the fray with nary a drop spilled. Just like the dad champion he is.

With a flourish, Danny tucks the pillow behind his head and settles back.

“Remember that Christmas you and Tessa were obsessed with this movie?” he asks, as Kevin begins lining up his toy basketball player figurines for target practice with Buzz’s bb gun. “It was the year you both watched it like ten times in one week, and when you weren’t watching it, you were calling each other and yelling random lines at the other and then hanging up.”

He pauses. “It’s hard for me to rank your most annoying years on earth – there’s a lot to choose from there – but whatever year that was is top three.”

“It was 2004,” Scott answers easily as he takes another swallow of beer. “And fuck off.”

Home Alone is a thing with he and Tessa – a holiday staple. Some years they’d watched together, reciting the lines competitively, giving each other shit when one would bobble a word or cue. Other years they’d watched apart, during which one would text the other sporadic lines or trivia.

The tradition became a tradition the Christmas before the 2002 Canadian Championships – their final competition as novices. Because the Championships had been held in Hamilton in early January – a quick hour and change trip from their home rink – they’d spent the holiday training in Ilderton, allowing them to skate multiple hours a day, and still see family and friends.

Two days following Christmas Day, after a long late afternoon skate, the two of them had been eating holiday leftovers off of reindeer paper plates on the floor of this very same basement, drowsily watching a network re-airing of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, when Scott suggested they watch Home Alone instead.

He can still picture the exact look on her face when she discovered that he, like her, knew every line. And then the look of pure delight when she watched him realize the same thing.

It had been a goddamn epiphany.

It had also been a prime example of an important lesson the two of them would re-learn again and again and again over the years.

You never know everything about a person. Even when you think you do.

Maybe especially when you think you do.

“How is Tessa, by the way?” Danny asks casually, jerking Scott from the image of a freckle-faced, laughing girl with pigtail buns into the present. “Is she going to drop by like usual this week?”

Scott busies himself by leaning over and grabbing his grandmother’s old quilt, which is folded neatly in a basket situated off his end of the large, worn-in sectional.

“I think she’s traveling actually,” he answers, equally as casual, spreading the quilt to cover his legs completely before tipping his beer bottle fully vertical to finish the dregs. “She’s got a lot going on.”

A few beats of silence pass as Danny sits up, carefully placing his now empty beer on the coffee table, and then settling himself back into the collection of throw pillows, fussing with the one behind his head until it’s just right.

Like he’s been able to do since the age of 4, Scott can sense a Danny wet willy coming in a matter of seconds, even if this wet willy is the metaphorical kind.

“Yeah, I heard as much.” Danny’s voice is neutral. “Something about Nate MacKinnon?”

“Something like that,” Scott grunts, keeping his eyes focused on Kevin’s mother, who is now hysterically attempting to find a flight home from Paris to her son. “And work. She never stops working.”

Several more sluggish moments of silence elapse. He can feel Danny’s eyes on his face.

“She’s happy?” Danny asks finally, clasping his hands behind his head and thankfully shifting his gaze to the movie. “I mean, he’s good to her, yeah?”

Scott considers the question, as he gently peels the label off his empty bottle. Then, he answers truthfully. “He seems to be.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Danny nod thoughtfully, before his older brother looks at him again.  

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, still in that deliberately offhanded tone. “Tessa’s had her share of assholes. She deserves better.”

Scott just nods numbly in response, keeping his eyes fixed on the TV.

“It’s all good then, eh?” Danny picks up his empty bottle and begins mimicking Scott, running his thumbnail along the bottom edge of the label, his expression inscrutably bland. “You told me at Thanksgiving you both just needed to ‘turn the page.’ I think those were your exact words. And it looks like that’s happened, right? You’re both happy and moving on.”

Even though his last sentence is a statement, it still feels like a question.

And, if Scott had to answer it honestly, he would say that, yeah, he is happy.

Happy-ish?

Definitely not the happiest he’s ever been, but hell, his life’s highs have been so absurdly abnormal that it feels silly and unfair to compare where he is now to where he’s been. He’s happy enough to be hopeful that even happier is not only possible, but maybe even likely.

Scott looks back at this big brother and smiles, mostly genuinely.

“It’s all good. I’m good, and I think she’s good too. The page has been turned.”

(Ignoring the inconvenient, probably-will-get-better-with-time fact that he’s then immediately forced to drop kick Nate MacKinnon’s face out of his brain.)

(Followed shortly by Tessa’s.)

Pushing to stand, Danny grasps his beer bottle loosely in one hand, holding the other out for Scott’s bottle, before heading toward the stairs to the kitchen.

“I’ll be back with more alcohol to dull the sound of your voice reciting every goddamn line.”

Holding his middle finger straight up in the air as Danny’s heavy footfalls disappear up to the kitchen, Scott checks his phone, finding the sexy selfies his girlfriend sent him earlier, her naked, sun-kissed face and shoulders exposed above clouds of bubbles in a Jacuzzi bath, the tops of her full breasts glistening in the water.

He looks.

He keeps looking.

He really needs to reply soon.

It’s been almost two hours since she sent him the pics. She gets anxious when they’re apart and he doesn’t respond promptly to her texts.

His pointer finger hovers over the tiny keypad.

A silent movie kick starts without warning in his head. Two people leaning intimately toward each other – one blonde, the other dark. The brunette’s face tips up, the dim light of the VIP area of some Tampa club casting a hazy shadow over her eyes as the man beside her softly kisses her, his mouth latching on sensually to her bottom lip and tugging gently.

Motherfucker.

Scott locks his phone, tossing it to the side. 

Closing his eyes, he rests his head back against the couch, concentrating hard on visualizing a large white sink full to the brim with water. Then, he watches as his hand plunges unhurriedly into the center and pulls the drain up, trying to relax incrementally as the sink steadily empties.

It’s a well-worn trick taught to him years ago by one of their mental prep coaches – a trick that usually works like a charm when he feels fear, anger or any other strong emotion begin to overwhelm his common sense and perspective.

It doesn’t work this time, though.

Truthfully, it hasn’t worked in a while.

Her face swims back to the surface again – alone this time, thank Christ – paler and more delicate than the face whose photos now fill his phone. Mentally raising the white flag, he lets the weight of her absence tonight settle solid and heavy in his chest, as he sits here in his parents’ basement filled with the ghosts of Christmas past, carrying on with their stupid Home Alone tradition without her.

 _Enough_ , he thinks after a minute of this exquisitely familiar self-torture, angrily forcing his eyes open. _Fucking enough._ _This does no one – not Tessa, not you, not Jackie – a bit of fucking good. Pull your fucking head out. She isn’t dead. Everything is fine. Tessa is happy. You are happy. Life goes on._

When Danny returns with two cold beers and bowl of trail mix, Scott somehow manages to wrench his head out of his ass, and they watch the rest of the movie without another mention of Tessa. 

An hour later, with Kevin McCallister’s happy ending secured, he stretches to stand, before suddenly noticing that Danny has fallen asleep – his cheek resting awkwardly on the weaponized throw pillow. A string of drool stretches from the corner of his mouth to one gold decorative tassel.

Easing up slowly and carefully, he retrieves his phone and snaps a few photos of Danny’s open-mouthed slack face, making sure to get close-ups of the drool for good measure. With a few taps, he re-sets his brother’s contact photo to one of these new gems, choosing a shot with a particularly repulsive angle.

He laughs softly as he watches his brother sleep, and then pads quietly up the stairs to his room, leaving the movie credits rolling behind him.

After brushing his teeth, he takes off his shirt and his flannel pajama pants, climbing beneath at least four quilts on his childhood bed with only his Clark Griswold boxer shorts on.

In the warm light of his bedside lamp, he pushes the covers down to take a quick selfie, smirking into the camera as his free hand tucks suggestively inside the waistband above Clark’s face. Looking at the photo contemplatively for a moment, he finally sends it flying through the ether and plugs his phone into the charger.

Then, despite not feeling all that sleepy a few minutes prior, he surprises himself by falling almost immediately and deeply asleep.

**********************

At first, the sound is incorporated seamlessly into his dream, which finds him instructing a group of young skaters on carriage and posture at his family’s rink. Except weirdly, all of the kids’ faces that peer up at him are from he and Tessa’s beginner class back in the 90s – people who are now fully grown adults with mortgages and crows feet.

He searches fruitlessly for the source of the noise in the dream, annoyed at the repetitive chime, until finally he’s roused awake, his hand reaching blindly in the direction of his phone.

Squinting in the dark at the text notification on his locked screen, his eyes land on a photo of a dark mass of…something. For an insane second, he thinks it’s Tessa’s hair, and he swipes the text open.

Then his common sense and eyeballs catch up to his embarrassingly transparent brain.

The dark mass is actually a tight shot of a black satin nightie, which is bunched up over a pair of very tan hips, exposing fire-engine red lacy panties. Wedged deeply in the side of the underwear are two fingers, a French manicured thumb resting lightly on top of the partially exposed mound.

His eyes lower to the message below the pic.

_Not nearly as good as the real thing but it’ll have to do. Unless…_

Well, damn. This a new level of aggressive.

Up to this point, their sexts have been more suggestive than explicit…not that he’s opposed to it or anything.

Objectively, it’s a really hot photo.

It’s also a clear invitation. Her parents’ house, where she’s staying for Christmas until she flies back to Florida in a few days, is a manageable drive away. He could easily slip out and back in without anyone knowing.

He looks at the picture again, his eyes drawn to her disappearing fingers.

God, he’s tempted. Without a doubt, slipping into the private entrance of Jackie’s parents’ detached mother-in-law suite and getting naked and sweaty for a couple of hours will for sure clear his mind of all of the other emotional clutter that’s accumulated there tonight.

He knows this conclusively because it’s worked like a charm for the better part of four months.

But, a booty call this late would also mean driving back before the sun and catching maybe two hours of sleep (if he’s lucky) before his gaggle of nieces and nephews are up for their Santa loot.

And if every other Christmas since his brothers had babies is any indication, there will be no rest for the weary until every toy is assembled and tested out, especially with Uncle Scott’s help.

His decision now made, he rolls over, tucking the blankets under his armpits as he taps out a response.

_If I didn’t have to be up at the crack ass of dawn, your fingers would be busy doing other things_

Those three dots appear at the bottom of the text thread, and then another photo pops up, this time of her pouting face. In it, her hair is pulled into a high ponytail as she lounges in bed, the covers pulled up just far enough to make it clear that she’s topless.

He taps the camera icon and snaps a quick selfie of him making an equally pouty face and sends it to her. Then, glancing at the bedside clock, he begins typing a final good night message so that he can try and get some sleep before the tiny terrors invade his room in a matter of hours.

But in the middle of composing it, she sends him another text – simple and straightforward, with no distracting sexy photo accompanying it.

_Merry Christmas, my love. Can’t wait to spend many more Christmases with you._

Something behind his ribs twitches.

He reads the two sentences again, unsure of how to respond.

Yes, they’d talked vaguely about the future, about places they’d like to travel, bands they’d like to see live, restaurants on their bucket lists. They’d even discussed how they could align their work schedules next year (well, her work schedule and his handful of days each month guest coaching at different rinks).

But, this.

This feels like another thing altogether.

He stares so long at her message that he suddenly realizes that she may (accurately) guess he’s freaking out on his end of the line at what she’s just shared. Hurriedly, he taps the emoji menu and sends a kissy face, chewing unconsciously on his thumb nail as he hits send.

Guessing (likely accurately) that his weak, clearly evasive response will be seen for what it is, he locates the red heart emoji on the menu and sends that too, before turning his phone to vibrate and rolling over to go back to sleep.

Sometime later – just as he begins to sink blissfully into that twilight between sleep and wakefulness – he registers the sound.

The unmistakable strains of mischievous sleigh bells as the Home Alone DVD menu music plays on repeat a floor below.

_Fucking Danny must still be asleep on the basement couch. That, or he left the movie on like an asshole when he went to bed._

Scott rolls to his stomach and pulls the covers up over his ears, burrowing down into their soft depths and resolutely ignoring the looping notes.

But, he just can’t block out the distinctive music. Sweet Christ, it’s like an earworm that’s now magnified in surround sound inside his head.

Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, his mind begins to flick through the photo album of a dozen different Christmases, as Tessa’s face at every age between 13 and 30 cycles methodically in mind’s eye. Her hair light brown and bobbed, then wavy and tinged red, then long and almost black. Her body slight and tomboyish in their pre-Canton years, then muscular and hard angles during their three Olympic quads, then lusher and curvier in between.

Most of all, though, he thinks about her laugh. God, but her laugh is the fucking best.

Before he can stop himself, his cell phone is in his hand, his pointer tapping the text message icon. He manually types in her name, knowing that it’ll take forever to find her on his list of recent messages because it’s been weeks since they last texted.

Since he last texted, to be more precise. Since his brain had shorted out in that Tampa club and he’d been unable to restrain himself from messaging her. Since he’d watched her read his texts and drop her phone into her purse.

In the end, he types the first thing that pops into his head, taking time to repeat the line a few times silently to make sure he’s captured it accurately before hitting send.

_I’m eating junk food and watching rubbish, you better come out and stop me_

It’s beyond embarrassing how hard he stares at his screen, waiting for those three little dots to appear. Just desperate for any confirmation that she’s willing to meet him here in this weirdness, however fucked up things seem.

He glances from his phone to the bedside clock repeatedly for the first five minutes, finally propping his phone against the pillow beside him. When she reads the text at the 13-minute mark, he sits up sharply, laying his cell on top of his knees so he can see her reply more clearly when it comes through.

And there his phone sits for another half hour, quietly mocking him as the screen dims, then darkens and locks from disuse.

He wishes he could feel surprised. Or angry. Or indignant.

But he can’t feel any of those things.

Because mostly, he just feels deserving.

His mind pivots suddenly to the Home Alone scene where, lonely, scared and long over the thrill of limitless freedom and cheese pizza, Kevin asks the fake Santa in the park to share a message with the real one for him.

_Will you please tell Santa that instead of presents this year, I just want my family back?_

Robotically, he sits up and places his uncooperative phone back on the nightstand, before laying down on his side…just in time for the sound of the phone vibrating sharply against the wooden table to make him jump nearly out of his skin.

With one swift movement, his hand shoots out across his body as he lifts and unlocks it simultaneously, his eyes greedy on the lit screen.

_Is this toothbrush approved by the American Dental Association?_

As his face splits open into a smile, the three jiggling dots appear underneath her message, before a pic pops up.

Cropped from the chest up, Tessa stands holding a bright red toothbrush in her all white bathroom, her face quirked adorably as she gives the toothbrush a suspicious side eye. Her hair sits over one shoulder in a messy braid, a shoulder covered by – Scott does a double take and quickly uses his fingers to zoom in – a flannel pajama shirt covered in small Dwight Schrute heads, each wearing different styles of holiday headgear.

He lets out a bark of laughter, as he enlarges each Dwight one by one. By his count, there are 12 different Dwight varietals. Dwight wearing antlers. Dwight dressed as Santa. Dwight wearing a jaunty elf’s hat.

And then it clicks.

_Are you wearing…the 12 days of Dwight?_

Immediately, the three dots begin moving, as he rearranges his pillows so he can lay back comfortably, his back to the headboard.

_You bet your ass I am._

He laughs out loud again, returning the photo to its original dimensions. Still chuckling, he assesses her image one more time, letting his eyes move slowly and thoroughly over the planes of her face.

She looks a little worn around the edges. But still happy.

And not fake-it-til-you-make-it happy either – a Tessa expression he knows well.

Really, truly happy.

 _Good_ , he thinks, resolutely ignoring the concrete weight that’s solidified in his gut. _Happy is how I want her. We both deserve to be happy._

He glances at their text thread again. He should stop while they’re ahead, just throw out a merry Christmas and say good night. He knows she’d reply in kind, and that would be that on that.

Business partner holiday well wishes? Check.

Instead, he plumbs the depths of his memory, chewing on the side of his lip for a second, his brow furrowing in concentration, before carefully typing another message.

_Bless this highly nutritious microwavable macaroni and cheese dinner and the people who sold it on sale. Amen._

 A few minutes go by with no response.

He suddenly feels like the kid in class (you know the one) who always tries to keep the joke alive long after it’s dead.

No one wants to hang out with that kid.

Why the fuck did he feel compelled to continue the quote-a-thon? Jesus, he’s going to feel like such a lame asshole if she leaves him on ‘read’ again until the next time they’re forced to text each other for work shit.

Then his phone vibrates, and in his haste to pick it up he fumbles the retrieval, lunging off the side of the bed to scoop it up and read her response.

_Do these vans get good gas mileage?_

Scott’s gut unclenches slightly.

 _Bet you can’t remember neighbor boy’s name though_ , he types back, grinning like an idiot. _No googling either._

His cell vibrates almost immediately.

_Mitch Murphy. You insult me, Scott Moir._

Quickly, he googles “Mitch Murphy Home Alone.”

He swears, laughing slightly, and then sends back the smoke nose emoji of victory.

And, so it goes.

For the better part of the next hour, they Home Alone each other nearly to sleep, the accuracy and precision of their quotes and trivia growing shakier the later it gets.

About the time it begins to feel like tiny pieces of sand paper are scraping his eyeballs with each blink, Tessa finally lays down her trump card.

_Last question. If you answer right, we’ll call this year a draw. (Which is generous considering I’m winning.) Who was originally cast to play Marv? Don’t cheat._

Shit.

He rifles through his tired brain for a glimmer of memory – or at the very least – a reasonable guess.

When he comes up empty, he goes philosophical on her.

_There is no Marv but Daniel Stern's Marv._

A few beats later, he cackles as he pictures her face saying the words he's reading.

_I believe the words you’re looking for are “You are the champion, Tessa.” Go ahead. Say it. It’ll be freeing. Then, I’ll tell you the answer._

He grins, and then closes his text box, quickly locating the camera.

Fuck it.

It’s Christmas. And it’s late enough that his brain isn’t capable of considering the (many valid) reasons why not to do this.

Selecting the video setting, he switches on the bedside lamp and then changes the camera orientation until his face fills the screen, hesitating for a second before hitting the red record button.

“Tessa Jane McCormick Virtue, you are the undisputed champion of Home Alone Trivia 2018,” he says seriously, looking squarely at the camera.

Then his voice grows quieter, the corners of his mouth tipping up slightly. He takes a breath. “Merry Christmas, kiddo. I hope Santa brings you everything you asked for.”

A new video appears under his a few minutes later, and his heart rate speeds up as he taps the play button.

“The answer is Robert DeNiro,” she answers with a smirk, her white bedding bunched under the armpits of her Dwight PJs, which Scott now notices are slightly glowing in the muted light from her bedside lamp. “Weird, but not really, right?”

The camera bobbles as she slides down a fraction in bed. When the picture refocuses, the camera has moved closer to her face, her green eyes bright and seemingly fastened directly on his.  

“Merry Christmas…” She pauses, her face cracking into the sweetest childlike smile. “…ya filthy animal.”

 Then her head drops back, and she laughs – _the best fucking laugh_ , he thinks – as the video ends.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the good news...I have much of the next chapter already written. It just needs to be finessed a bit. The bad news is that scene isn't in Mallorca either. LOL. BUT! I'm getting closer, and I think it'll be worth the wait. Patience, friends. :) In the meantime, thanks for reading. Love y'all, mean it.


	7. March 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuscany and too much wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep telling y'all I'm going to write Mallorca. And then I keep not doing it. 
> 
> Here's the thing...I am going to do it. I pinky swear promise. But, I had other stories I wanted to tell in between where we left off at Christmas and two weeks from now. Hope you'll forgive/indulge me. 
> 
> Please enjoy Tuscany, Carolina Kostner and one ill-advised drunken phone call.

_**March 2019** _

“I think Twitter calls a man like him a…” Carolina flaps one hand lazily as she searches her brain for the misplaced word their second bottle of wine has taken from her. “…SILVER FOX!” she whisper-yells a moment later, her grin triumphant.  “You have heard this term, no? It means sexy old--”  
  


 “Shhhhhh!” Tessa hisses exasperatingly, laughing in spite of her embarrassment right now. “I know what a silver fox is.”  
  


Carolina’s dark eyes return to the beautiful man sitting at the bar, the tip of her tongue running slowly across the inside of her top lip before she sinks her teeth into her lower one.  
  


“Puoi avere qualsiasi modo si desidera,” she purrs in his direction.  
  


Then, she laughs at the look on Tessa’s face.  
  


“Jesus Christ, Caro!” Tessa half laughs, half moans in humiliation, as her Italian friend smiles impishly and shrugs, blithely popping a piece of cantuccini into her mouth.  
  


Her face is hot to the touch and no doubt a hideous shade of maroon, as the man turns and begins to watch them again. Patiently, he waits until Tessa’s gaze drifts magnetically back to his.    
  


Raising an eyebrow, he flashes her a quick smile.  
  


“He heard you that time,” Tessa mutters through a clenched smile, before becoming inordinately interested in her phone.  
  


They’re sitting at a corner table at Trattoria Al Rientro, a small restaurant nestled in the hills of Bagno Vignoni a little over an hour outside of Florence. On a whim, she’d called Carolina a week ago and asked if she’d join her for a couple of nights at a bungalow in the Tuscan countryside. She’d expected her friend to beg off, given that Caro was in the throes of full-time competitive training.  
  


But, instead she’d been all in. Which, frankly, shouldn’t have been a surprise. Because Carolina has always shown up for her. She has a sixth sense for knowing when she’s needed.  
  


The warm light of the table’s lone flickering candle dances playfully across Caro’s face, her chin tilted up slightly. “I wanted him to hear me,” she murmurs before breaking off another small piece of cantuccini and sliding it into her mouth. “He looks like a fun way to spend a night.”  
  


“Yeah?” Tessa breaks off a piece of cantuccini too, waiting to eat it until the waiter reappears with their glasses of Vin Santo. “Knock yourself out then.” She grins as she carefully dips the crunchy almond cookie in the glass. “Just as long as don’t knock yourself up.”  
  


With careful, small movements to avoid notice by neighboring tables, Caro clenches her right fist and jerks her forearm up, slapping her right bicep, grinning as she gives Tessa the Italian equivalent of the middle finger.  
  


Then, smirking at Tessa’s loud bark of laughter, she gathers her long dirty blond hair into low ponytail, twisting it a couple of times before laying it over her left shoulder, her expression turning thoughtful.  
  


“Have you ever…” Carolina’s voice trails off as she swirls another piece of cantuccini in her glass of dessert wine. “You know…had a scare?”  
  


Suddenly, in her mind's eye, she's staring at a pair of pale feet with lavender-painted toes, resting on the dirty beige tile of her Canton, Michigan bathroom. Flexing and pointing her toes in nervous apprehension, she sees herself fervently bargaining with the God she'd never bothered praying to before about the things she’ll do (and not do) if only just one blue line – and not two – will appear on the white, urine-soaked stick next to her on the counter.  
  


Back in the present, Tessa takes a long sip of her wine, fully swallowing it and placing her glass back on the table before she speaks. “One scare a long time ago.” She hesitates and then asks, “What about you?”  
  


Carolina’s mouth flattens for a second and then twists into a rueful smile. “Once with Alex…before everything happened.”  
  


She glances down at her hands, fiddling with the delicate gold bangles as she gently maneuvers each one until they are evenly spaced on her slender wrist. “I guess that would have been…” She looks back at Tessa and then out into the restaurant, as if consulting a large invisible wall calendar. “Spring 2012? Maybe April?”  
  


“Jesus, that’s weird.” Tessa exhales and then laughs. It sounds weirdly hollow to her ears. “My scare was nearly the same time…just a few weeks before Worlds.”  
  


When that single blue line had finally appeared that dark March morning, she’d felt so lightheaded that she’d sagged sideways off the toilet and wrenched up the lid, heaving until there was nothing left in her stomach, tears sliding down her face.  
  


God, she’d been so terrified. And so angry with herself and with him. For their stupid, unthinking recklessness. For their lack of self-control. For the confusing, topsy-turvy morass that had become their personal relationship.  
  


But mostly, she’d just felt angry she couldn’t share the burden of that morning with him. Because if she did, it would have exposed that, once again, her body was the potential weak link in their career. (Which, obviously, she knows now is both fucked up and unfair. But then, it had just seemed like an absolute and unassailable truth.)  
  


And, of course, telling him that she might be pregnant with their baby would have also exposed one other painful truth, which was that, while he's the once-in-a-generation talent in their partnership, she is the fixed axis that makes the whole thing go round. That's her role. It had been her role since she was seven years old.  
  


Now though?  
  


_Baton passed._  
  


_1-2-3, not it._  
  


This new reality is a strange, unknown land – a place where she swings continuously between relief and dread.  
  


Freedom and anxiety.

  
Grief and hopefulness.  
  


“Did you ever tell him about it?” Caro asks, as she tosses back the last of her wine, primly patting her lips dry with her napkin. Her wide, expressive eyes settle curiously on Tessa.  
  


No need to clarify who ‘him’ is. They’ve been close friends for a very long time.  
  


And this is 2012 they’re talking about.  
  


“No. It was simpler not to tell him.” Tessa tracks the waiter until he turns and catches her gaze, nodding once as she signals for a check. “He wouldn’t have handled it well.”  
  


“Truly shocking,” Carolina deadpans, and when their eyes lock, they erupt in laughter.  
  


Caro's laughter is easy, but it isn't malicious. It’s not like she dislikes Scott. No one really dislikes Scott, even when he does unlikable things at times.  
  


Tessa used to believe that this innate likability was just one of those unfair but ultimately innocuous hidden advantages bestowed by the universe on a lucky few. That if, on occasion, it deflected accountability from him like some kind of  bulletproof vest, what was the long-term harm, really?  
  


She doesn’t believe this anymore, though.  
  


So, she laughs woodenly at Carolina’s uncomfortably accurate sarcasm. And she tries not to dwell on the nagging fear that acknowledging Scott’s faults aloud to someone else may always feel disloyal.  
  


(This particular habit is a booby-trapped, seemingly bottomless cavern that her current therapist is determined to mine.)  
  


Slipping a wad of cash into the leather folder the waiter had slipped on the table just seconds before, Carolina drops her phone into her purse as she stands. The look she gives Tessa is knowing but full of understanding. “A bottle of Sassicaia and some sleazy tour gossip for a proper dessert?” she offers, holding out her hand, her body already angled toward the door.  
  


Her warm, dry fingers wrap firmly around Tessa’s, as Carolina gently squeezes her hand once and then guides them out of the restaurant and into the Tuscan night.  
  


************

At the sound of the front door clicking softly shut downstairs, Tessa sits suddenly upright in her bed, the room spinning for a few seconds before the outlines of the large wooden armoire and small desk materialize right-side up in the darkness.  
  


Instinctively, she reaches for her cell phone, wincing at the artificial  brightness of her home screen, which reads 4 a.m. After a few seconds, her sluggish brain grinds into motion and her heart rate slows, as she remembers that Carolina had to catch the 6:30 a.m. train to Venice for a business meeting.   
  


Pushing to a sitting position, Tessa swings her legs off the side of the bed, unable to ignore the unbearable pressure in her bladder now that she’s fully awake. Unfortunately, it turns out she’s also still slightly drunk, and as she slides off the bed to head to the washroom, she stumbles, then trips and falls forward, her knees radiating pain against the cold tiled floor.  
  


“You’re a fucking disaster,” she mutters, patting around for the dropped phone and gingerly flexing the wrist that took the brunt of the fall.  
  


When her bladder is blessedly empty, she dutifully washes her hands at the antique-looking sink basin, her thoughts so fully occupied with climbing back under the sheets that she almost misses the flicker across her silent cell phone – a single CBC news notification lighting up the screen.  
  


A dull ache begins at the base of her spine, inching slowly up her torso until it lands and lodges in the bones between her breasts. Again and again, Tessa reads the single sentence, trying to fully process the sterile, clinical wording.  
  


Mechanically, she shuffles back to bed, shifting until the duvet covers most of her face and ears as she lays on her side facing the room’s lone window.  
  


Alex Trebek has stage 4 pancreatic cancer.  
  


_This is totally unstable behavior_ , she thinks numbly, as hot tears drip sideways onto her pillow. _You don’t even know him. People are diagnosed with terminal illnesses every minute of every day – thousands and thousands of people around the world that you don’t know and don’t cry for._  
  


In a dreamlike haze, she watches herself unlock her phone, find his name and tap the familiar number, as she scoots further down under the blankets and wipes her nose on the fitted sheet. Listening to the call ring across the Atlantic Ocean, she can smell the sharp notes of red wine on her breath in the enclosed space.  
  


_This isn’t out of bounds,_ she tells herself. _Not after Christmas, right? He was the one who opened the lines of communication._  
  


They’re friends. Not best friends, of course. Not even close friends at this point.  
  


But undoubtedly friends. Long-time friends.  
  


And long-time friends should pick up the phone when you call late at night from another continent.  
  


“Tessa?” His voice floats through the speakerphone, sounding remarkably clear for being on the other side of the world.  
  


He’s out a bar or loud restaurant. The telltale thumping bass and dull roar of background chatter are unmistakable.  
  


All at once, she feels completely ridiculous for calling him.  
  


So he can…what? Comfort her for crying over Alex Trebek?  
  


“Tess? You there?”  
  


“Uh, yeah. Hey.” Her words are thick coming out of her mouth, like they’re wrapped in cotton. “Sorry. I know it’s late. And it sounds like you’re out so I’ll just tal--”  
  


“Are you crying?” he asks suspiciously. A woman’s voice cuts through the line suddenly, so clearly and loudly that she must be standing under Scott’s armpit.  
  


“What’s going on?” she asks in the background with practiced solicitousness, her voice drifting through the speakers like a ghost. “Everything ok?”  
  


“Hold on a minute, Tessa.” And then, his mouth averted from the phone, he says in an undertone, “Be right back. Try and find us a table, yeah?”  
  


The bar noise seems to intensify in volume for a minute before the other side of the line goes suddenly quiet.  
  


“Can you hear me now?” he asks, and she startles because it's like he’s sitting right beside her with the absence of the earlier bar racket.   
  


“Yeah, I can hear you,” she confirms, turning her face away from the speaker as she sniffles through a stuffy nose. “Listen, I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have called you this late. Really, I can just--”  
  


“It’s not that late. It’s not even midnight here.” He pauses for a second, the sound of car doors shutting and laughter floating around her darkened bedroom. “But, it’s like…what? 4 a.m. there? Has something happened? Is your family ok? Or is something going on with…” He trails off awkwardly, then rallies. “Not that I’m bothered that you’re calling me at 4 a.m.,” he adds hastily. “You know you can always--”  
  


“Alex Trebek is dying of cancer,” she blurts out, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  
Then a terribly, horribly humiliating thing happens in the silence that follows this pronouncement. She begins to choke on an unexpected sob, mortified but completely unable to smother the raw sounds that claw their way out of her throat. Her eyes squeeze shut as she covers her mouth uselessly with her hand.  
  


She cries for at least a minute straight, which feels like an hour, until she quiets, hiccupping slightly.  
  


Scott makes an indistinguishable noise – something that’s half exhale, half cough. “That’s…that’s really terrible.” His tone is weirdly cautious. “I don’t really know what to say. I mean…that’s just…it’s fucked up.”  
  


They sit in silence for a few seconds, and she wonders if he’s listening to her breathe the same way she’s listening to his steady, even breaths, automatically beginning to sync with him even though she knows how pathetically lame this would sound to him now.   
  


Or, maybe he’s just wondering why she’s crying inconsolably about an elderly game show host neither of them has ever met.  
  


“It _is_ fucked up. Like how you can be well one week and then just gravely ill the next,” she agrees, forcing herself out of the covers and arranging herself into a more dignified sitting position. Wiping her cheeks with the heel of her palm, she presses the backs of her shoulders and arms against the cool wooden headboard. “I don’t know…I just feel like I know him, which is weird, right? We know how crazy that is – for people to assume they know you because they’ve seen you on TV.”  
  


She pauses, thinking hard about what she’s going to say next and how she’s going to say it. “I guess I feel like Jeopardy saw me through some stuff, you know?”  
  


An abnormally long pause follows her explanation, and as the din of the bar music and laughter slowly but steadily increases in volume, she understands he’s making his way back inside.  
  


“Just because you don’t know him doesn’t mean you can’t be sad about it,” he says finally.  
  


She waits for a few moments, expecting him to continue, to affirm the real reason she’s crying. To acknowledge the hours they spent watching Jeopardy together – how every shared episode somehow managed to uncover new, unknown things about the other person.  
  


But, apparently that single sentence is all he has to say on the subject.  
  


A brutal silence stretches interminably between them, and she thinks she might actually shrivel up and die alone of pure, unfiltered awkwardness halfway around the world from home. It’s like they’re old high school classmates who’ve found themselves in unexpected, impromptu conversation at the airport and are doing their level best to muddle through politely.  
  


“Anyway… sorry again to interrupt your night with my emotional craziness. Go have a beer for me and toast to Alex, alright?” She laughs lightly, but it still sounds stiff to her own ears. “And to all the times I kicked your ass in Jeopardy.”  
  


Her head pounds from too much wine and too many tears, and she slides listlessly back down the bed until she’s on her back, eyes closing against a wave of nausea.  
  


“Of course I will,” he says, voice raised to be heard over the latest Halsey song, obviously relieved the conversation is nearing its end. “Two cheers tonight to the legends Alex Trebek and Tessa Virtue. The crew here will toast to both of you for sure.”  
  


They say goodnight quickly after that and the call ends, just as the bubbling nausea in her gut pushes insistently upward, unwilling to be ignored any longer.  
  


As she squats on her haunches a few minutes later, holding the side of the toilet with one hand, the other wiping her mouth, Tessa begins to laugh, the sound echoing eerily around the marble bathroom.  
  


Because Scott’s girlfriend will raise a glass to her when the fiery pits of hell freeze over.  
  


And not one day sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter posted this weekend? Feels possible. Maybe tonight even? Keep refreshing because I think I’m on a roll.
> 
> (Update: new chapter coming around 9:30 CDT) 
> 
> *Cue the wild applause from the dozen of you who still care about this story*
> 
> If you're one of the dozen, though...thank you, love you, mean it.


	8. April/Early May 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A telling conversation in Korea. A double date gone awry in Tampa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun one to write...I hope it's as fun to read. And, I really hope you'll stick around for what's next...I promised you Mallorca, and I plan to deliver something tasty.

_**Mid-April 2019** _

“It’s undercooked right now, but it’ll get better.” Tessa pulls her bottom lip over her top and blows a puff of air violently upward to dislodge the sweaty tendril of hair plastered to her cheek. “The bones are good…we just need more reps. It’ll be good enough for tomorrow, though.”

(If she’s keeping it completely real, their new ex routine isn't at all good enough. Not even close, actually.)

In the bright hallway of Seoul’s Mokdong Ice Rink, they’re sitting on two metal folding chairs having just finished their final run-through before the show tomorrow. They were the next to last to rehearse, so once Evgenia finishes her set, they’ll be ready to board the bus back to the hotel and end this never-ending day in which Scott has managed to become  more grumpy by the hour.

“There’s too much standing around in the middle,” he mutters darkly, yanking the laces of one skate loose and flinging it in the direction of his skate bag in what Tessa considers an entirely overly aggressive way. “Like the amount of jazz hands is totally ri--”

“It feels more static on the ice than it looks under a spotlight…we talked about this when we reworked it,” she says in what she hopes is a firm but friendly tone, lacing up her running shoes, her eyes firmly fixed on her feet. “Let’s watch the film after tomorrow’s skate…if it looks like too much, we can adjust it for night two.”

He makes an indecipherable grunting sound and tosses the other skate toward its pair before peeling off his long skate socks and flinging them toward his bag.

Per their new normal, the wordless space between them congeals and stagnates. One of the lights directly over Scott’s head begins to flicker every three seconds or so.

She’s halfway down the hallway to the stadium exit when his voice cuts through the thick silence.

“Cara texted earlier and said there’s a bunch of fans talking shit on social media about You Rock My World. Blowback from a documentary…or something?” A pointed pause, and then, “Feels like the kind of thing you and Russell normally get in front of.”

A line of fire crawls up the back of her neck and spreads quickly to her ears.

“So, the world wide web doesn’t work in Florida, is that right?” she asks flatly. The tension between them, his attitude the last two days and the killer jet lag all combine to silently asphyxiate her last molecule of patience. “I brought up my concerns about this back in January. I sent you links to some articles about different radio boycotts and asked you what you thought we should do, if anything. You were radio silent.”

He just stares at her, his face expressionless – almost placid. Then he drops his head and begins tying the laces of his running shoes.

She waits another beat for him explain himself, her eyes on the light above his head, which pulses rapidly and repetitively for a couple of beats before extinguishing altogether.  
   
“With the amount of prep time we had, there was barely time to pull together one new ex, let alone two,” she says finally, amid strong urges to remind him of exactly why their prep time had been so limited.  “It is what it is for this show. We’ll figure out something else going forward.”

He never looks up from his shoelaces as she turns on her heel and heads to find a seat alone on the bus.

*******************  
  
**Early May 2019**

They’re sitting at two small tables pulled together on the patio of his very favorite Tampa bar, which is a fun little place in Seminole Heights with a good local beer selection, a signature bourbon cocktail that goes down a little too easy and an adjacent food truck selling the best Cuban sandwich he’s ever put in his mouth. The place even has an old claw-foot bathtub in the entryway, in which he’s taken too many drunk selfies with Jackie to count.

The two of them sit backed up tightly against the plank half-wall that separates the bar’s outdoor seating from the black and white food truck on the other side. Across from them are her friends, Brooke and Aaron, who together comprise their best and most frequent double date option, owing to the fact that Scott doesn’t feel the overwhelming compulsion to punch Aaron in the face. (The proportion of dude bros in Jackie’s broad friend circle is an alarming fact that Scott tries to avoid thinking about too closely.)

“How long are you in town for?” Aaron asks, taking a long pull from his beer as the two women next to them descend into gossip about one of their mutual friends who Scott barely knows who’s apparently feuding with another friend he also barely knows. “I need to find a few more people to play in a charity golf scramble Saturday morning. You interested?”

Aaron pushes back slightly from the table and slides down lazily in the bright yellow patio chair, his long, tanned legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles.

He’s a classically good-looking guy, well over six feet tall and fit – not too bulky but not too lean. He’s clean-cut at first glance, with a square jaw and gray eyes that are set off by blonde hair, which is cut close on the sides but far more fashionably styled on top than Scott could (or would ever try) to pull off.

The only indicator that he’s not an actual Ken doll is the tattoo on the inside of his forearm, which is an outline of the Australian continent filled with intricate, interwoven flowers. In the center is three pairs of numbers separated by dots, which Aaron had shared before is the date of his brother’s death, who died in a car accident a few years ago. At the time, Scott had wanted to ask the significance of Australia to all of this, but he hadn’t. He’d already asked about the numbers, and he didn’t want to seem pushy.

“Shit, man. I’d love to play but I’m headed back to Toronto for some business meetings this weekend.” Scott tips his chair back so that he’s balancing on the back two feet, which is a dangerous proposition, as he’s nearing the bottom of his fourth bourbon cocktail. After wobbling wildly for a few seconds, he quickly leans forward so the chair is resting safely on four legs.

Jackie stills beside him, having obviously overheard mention of his upcoming trip back home before continuing her conversation with Brooke, seemingly unfazed.

(Spoiler alert: She is not unfazed. She is highly irritated he’s going back to Canada so soon after his last visit a little more than a week ago to see Charlie and Nicole’s new baby. Scott thinks that she’s mostly irritated, however, that she’s been invited neither time.)

“Too bad…the tourney is at Copperhead this year,” Aaron says, grinning at Scott’s crestfallen face. “I’ve only played there a couple of times, but the 16th is a total mind fuck. How the pros make that course look so easy is incredible.”

The two of them chat easily for the next few minutes about golf and how it breaks your heart, the best courses in Tampa, and Aaron’s quest for the perfect driver when he catches Tessa’s name muttered in low, snide tones in the neighboring conversation.

“…mouth open – like smoldering sexpot style – as she holds up a fucking cotton ball and a bottle of eye makeup remover. _Like,_ _it’s eye makeup remover, sis_. You don’t need to go that hard. Are you about to give a blowjob or remove your mascara?”

The two women laugh quietly, and out of the corner of his eye, he watches Jackie roll her eyes as she takes a long, exaggerated sip from her margarita. 

However, before he can fully process what’s been said, Aaron stops mid-sentence to stare at his girlfriend.

“What about a blow job?” he asks innocently, smiling slyly at her.

Brooke cuts her eyes immediately to Scott, before looking down at her lap and laughing nervously.

“We were just talking about his skating partner’s Instagram,” Jackie says offhandedly, as she drains the rest of her drink and Brooke begins to shift uneasily. “A quality mix of inspirational quotes and sex faces while she holds skincare products.”

It's a mean thing to say, for sure. But it's also a precedent-setting thing to say. It's the first direct opinion of Tessa she's ever shared in front of him. They normally don’t speak about her at all. Jackie has always followed his lead on this front.

No one at the table speaks for a couple of seconds, as the party of four next to them bursts into uproarious laughter at an unheard joke.

“All of her social media is basically work-related now,” Scott says finally, striving to match his girlfriend’s offhandedness but landing somewhere between annoyed and pissed. “For her, it’s just part of the gig now. And it does help raise exposure for some of the charities she supports too.”

Brooke begins to nod vigorously, taking a hasty sip of her cocktail. He can tell she feels massively uncomfortable with the turn the conversation has taken.

“Of course it helps,” she murmurs, her gaze landing on Aaron, before drifting back to her lap. “That’s great that she uses her platform in positive way.”

He’s not sure why he feels defensive all of a sudden. Yeah, Jackie’s statement had been snide and bitchy, but it’s not like it’s patently untrue. He may not post on social media very often but he lurks regularly. He’s seen how rigidly polished Tessa’s accounts are – the tight control she exercises over every single aspect of her online image. How predictable she is in a lot of ways.

But, shit. It’s not like he blames her. There’s a subset of their fans who are just ruthlessly critical of them both, particularly Tessa. (Although he’s taken his fair share of criticism since his new relationship went public in the fall.)

(Along with the subject of Tessa, the incessant mockery of their dating relationship online is another thing he and Jackie don’t discuss. Ever.)

Aside from all that, though, is the fact that Tessa is just extremely private about her real life. Why shouldn’t she be able to post only what she feels comfortable sharing? Who the fuck cares if it’s nothing but tired quotes and face moisturizer?

“She does a lot of stuff on there to help promote our skating show and appearances, as well,” he adds after an awkward pause, working to make sure his tone is lighter this time. “And thank fuck for that, eh? Because no one wants me running our promo on social media, I can tell you that. My six-year-old niece would be a better option, honestly.”

Brooke and Aaron laugh, but he just gives them a stiff, self-deprecating smile. In his periphery, Jackie runs her pointer along the salted rim of her glass. Then, she sucks her fingertip for a moment, before pushing back from the table. The skirt of her light blue sundress is bunched up on her right hip, the humidity of the evening causing it to cling unflatteringly.

He should reach out and discreetly pull it smooth for her, but he doesn’t.  

“I’m gonna run to the ladies room,” she says breezily to the table at large, without looking directly at any one of them specifically.

“I’ll go with you,” Brooke responds immediately, gathering her small shoulder bag.

The two women are gone only a few seconds before Aaron exhales loudly, and says, one corner of his mouth lifting, “A round of shots at the bar, my treat.”

************

Because they’d met Brooke and Aaron at the bar, once tabs are closed out and goodbyes are said, it’s just the two of them walking silently through the small parking lot to Jackie’s SUV a half hour later.

He’s too buzzed to drive after the Tequila shots, so without any words exchanged, she automatically climbs into the driver’s seat, twisting around to stow her purse carefully behind her, before starting the engine.

“I’m sorry if what I said about Tessa made you mad.” Her tone is neutral as she intently watches the black and white images from her back-up camera in the small screen on her dash, carefully maneuvering out of the tight parking space. “I didn’t think it would bother you, to be honest.”

He fiddles with the XM radio channel for a second, changing it to an old country station and buying for time.

“It’s just not a good look. She and I…I guess I’ve never really talked shit about her to other people. And, I don’t think she does either,” he says carefully, hoping that this habit is, in fact, still true for Tessa. “We’re friends, yeah? Just feels wrong.”

A full beat of silence passes before she says, her eyes moving to the rearview mirror and back to the road, “You give your other friends shit all the time. You’ll call them out and rag on them to me – and sometimes directly to their face – without blinking.” She pauses. “I’m not sure I understand why there’s a difference here.”

Suddenly exhausted by this conversation and the whole fucking night, he’s all at once devoutly glad his early flight tomorrow morning means that he can go directly to sleep as soon as they get back to her house.

“There’s a difference because she’s part of my livelihood. It’s not good for anyone if the two of us are out bad mouthing each other in public.”

“So, you’re going with ‘it’s bad for business’? Or, ‘friends don’t tease friends’? Which is it?” she asks tightly, looking over her right shoulder quickly as works her way to the far lane on the highway.

They’re almost to her exit. The giant green sign is like a goddamn water mirage in the desert.

“I’m going with ‘I don’t talk shit about Tessa.’” He begins to pull agitatedly at his seatbelt, which is cutting into his side now. “You’re making this way more complicated than it is.”

They exit the freeway in complete silence, before turning into her cheerfully named subdivision, its large stone sign flanked by palm trees. One after another, large, well-maintained ranch-style homes fly by outside the window, their front porch lights all burning brightly.

They ease into her driveway and sit stiffly next to each other, their elbows millimeters apart without touching on the shared space of the center console.

“Do you have feelings for her?” she asks, her voice small and flat.

“What the fuck, Jackie?” He leans forward and begins angrily unbuckling his seatbelt.

“That’s not an answer.” She reaches up and presses a button next to her overhead light, and they both look straight ahead as the garage door lifts slowly.

“I’ve already given you the answer. A long fucking time ago. I don’t understand why you want to rehash this.”

She lifts her foot off the brake and the vehicle inches forward until it’s all the way inside the garage. Mechanically, she pulls the gear shift into park.

Then, she turns and looks at him, waiting to speak until he meets her eye.

“But, you didn’t tell me the truth before, did you?” she asks quietly.

He just lets out an exasperated grunt, and moves to open the door. But, before he can get a firm grip on the handle, her fingers wraps around his shoulder, stopping him.

“Did you?” she repeats again softly.

 _No,_ he wants to shout. _I didn’t tell you the fucking truth. And say what? Please date me even though I may still be halfway in love with my skating partner, no matter how this thing between you and me shakes out? But don’t worry! Because she and I can never be real. All we really know how to do is slice one another open and bleed each other dry. And, we’ll probably figure out a way to do that even if you and I begin a relationship. So, anyway. How about it? Wanna be my girlfriend?_

“You’re grasping at straws because you don’t want to own the fact that you acted like an asshole at the bar,” he says instead, wiggling out of her grasp and swinging the passenger door open. “I can’t do this tonight. I have to be up in like four hours, and I still need to pack.”

************

An hour later, the light from the cable TV box glows blue on the inside of his eyelids until he restlessly flops over to face the back of the couch.

He lays there, futilely trying to fall asleep while his mind jerks from one thought to the next until it lands seemingly at random on his and Aaron’s conversation as they waited for their tequila shots at the bar earlier that night.

“I know the numbers are special because of your brother,” he’d said, gesturing to the black Roman numerals in the middle of Aaron's forearm tattoo, lifting his voice slightly to be heard over the live band tuning their instruments before their set. “But, what's with Australia? Is it ok if I ask the significance there?”

Aaron had looked him square in the face, before answering. “My brother always wanted to go…he loved the outdoors, hiking – all that kind of stuff. He was kind of insane about the whole thing…knew every major indigenous wildflower on that fucking continent, I swear. He even had these framed travel posters of Australia hung up all over his crappy little apartment. Anyway…he begged me for two years after he finished school to plan a trip with him, but I was too busy with building my career to take off two weeks in row.”

Two shot glasses had appeared on the bar then, and catching sight of them, Aaron had turned and handed one to Scott. Rotating his arm slightly so that his tattoo was facing up, he’d looked at it for a second and then dropped his arm to his side.

“It reminds me every day that we only get one time around the sun,” he’d finished, the sad smile on his face like a choke chain to Scott’s sinuses, which had unexpectedly begun to burn.

Then, Aaron had raised his shot glass to him and waited until Scott's was raised in return. “To our one time around the sun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a note to let me know what was good, meh or otherwise...your thoughts always make my day!


	9. BONUS SCENE - Toronto, May 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Happy Friday bonus scene set in Toronto, a few days after the last chapter ends. Decided to post as a fun little addition to the story to help set up the Mallorca chapter, which...I've still not completely finished. Because life, etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all have a great weekend, friends! :)

**_May 2, 2019_ **

Scott knocks lightly three times on the heavy dark wood door, trying to catch his breath after jogging all the way from the upscale wine and beer shop around the corner up two different elevator banks to her room on the 20th floor.

At least 30 seconds passes, during which he stands, feeling strangely self-conscious, and listens for sounds on the other side. When he hears nothing but silence, he glances at his watch.

Ten minutes late.

He hadn’t meant to be late – this wasn’t some kind of deliberate power play or gamesmanship or anything like that. In fact, he’d arrived to the Thompson Toronto in King West Village three hours early so as to have ample time to check into his room and grab dinner at the rooftop bar before their tour planning session this evening. It’s just that when he’d looked at the bar wall clock and realized he was due to her room in ten minutes, his hands had felt much too clammy and his gut much too jumpy to navigate the next two hours without booze.

Shifting the six-pack of Broadhead Blueberry Blonde to the opposite hand, Scott lifts the chrome knocker on the door in preparation to try again when the door flies open.

“I swear to God the heating system in here sounds like a jet engine,” Tessa says, laughing breathlessly. “I can’t hear anything at all. Have you been waiting forever?”

Her hair is wrapped in a white towel, and she’s wearing soft gray leggings and a light blue slouchy sweatshirt, the exposed skin of her right shoulder and clavicle still dewy from the bath. Between the starkness of the towel concealing her mass of dark hair and the shade of her top, her eyes look strikingly, almost other-worldly green.

“No worries...I’ve only been out here a few minutes. I was running late anyway.” He steps over the threshold, as she slides to the side to let him in, before letting the door shut behind him.

The enclosed entryway smells like roses, and he wonders briefly if it’s her body wash or maybe a bouquet from her boyfriend. He’s the kind that would send extravagant, missing-you bouquets to her while she’s traveling (and to mark his territory, he thinks snidely, before telling himself to fuck off).

They stand and appraise each other for a second in the dim little hallway to her room. It’s the first time they’ve been alone since the Korea shows last month.

“Do you want me to put those in the refrigerator?” she asks, pointing to the six pack of beer clutched in his hand. “Or pour two?”

She’s staring at his hair as she asks this, her head tilted slightly to the left. It’s always the first thing she does when they haven’t seen each other in a while – she silently judges his haircut choices.

“I think you know me well enough to know the answer to that,” he says lightly, smiling as her gaze slides from the top of his head down to meet his. “I should have thought to bring glasses from the bar.”

She smiles back genuinely, and holds out her hand, palm up. And, for one truly crazy moment, he thinks she’s offering to hold hands.

Then, a weird swooping sensation lands in his gut as he realizes that she’s just offering to take the beer.

Silently, he hands the six pack over, and follows her into what he now sees is a much bigger suite than the Executive Suite upgrade he received. The back wall is floor to ceiling windows with a killer view, the dark cityscape lit by a thousand twinkling lights. In the center of the room is a delicate crystal chandelier, under which sits a round dark wood table decorated with an enormous vase of white and blush roses.

 _Nailed it_ , he thinks, trying to feel a vague, pleasant nothingness as he looks at the massive, beautiful arrangement. A small white card lays next to the vase, blue inked handwriting scrawled messily to the margins.

Scott averts his eyes for a few seconds, but when she squats down to retrieve two glasses from the lower bar cabinet, he impulsively leans over and reads the card’s message, like the masochistic, boundary-ignoring asshole he wishes he wasn’t.

_I’m going to remember Saturday night (and the next morning’s shower) until I’m dead and gone. You’re amazing. You know that, right? And beautiful and brilliant. And the best thing about every day._

As she pops back up, he bends, jerkily re-tying one of his runners, which needed to be retied about as much as he needed to read that fucking card. When he looks up again, she’s fished out a bottle opener and is pouring the honey gold beers into two tall glasses, her eyes pinched together in concentration as she tilts each one to avoid too much foam.

Needing something to do beyond imagining her in a steamy shower, he sits – settling back awkwardly into one of the plush plum chairs tucked around the table.

There’s soft music coming from somewhere, and he looks around, searching for the source. After a minute, he realizes the sound is coming from her laptop on the table one seat over, plugged into a wall outlet.

“These smell so good. Like blueberry.” Tessa buries her nose in one of the glasses for a second before handing the other to him. Patting her towel turban, she gestures with her other hand toward a closed door. “Give me a second to deal with this wet hair… and then we can get the listening party started.”

As she pivots, his eyes fix onto her feet.

“Stop,” he says quietly, and she freezes in place, her back now turned. He leans forward in his seat and squints.

Her socks are almost the same color blue as her sweater and covered in tiny Bob Ross heads and his happy trees, with a band of mustard yellow at the top and across the toes.

“A strong addition to the collection,” he finishes, laughing slightly.

Still facing away from him, she responds with a funny little curtsy and sashays primly into the bedroom. “They make me happy.” Her voice is raised so he can hear her over the sounds of drawers opening and closing. “Just wait and see…these socks have powers, I’m telling you. Just being in their presence for the next two hours is going to make you extra chill.”

Scott laughs again, but this time is only for her benefit. No time spent in her company has been truly chill since…well, since last July. Maybe even before that.

This leads him to conclude that chill will only be achieved tonight if those socks can somehow be rolled up and smoked.

Taking a deep breath followed by a deep pull from his beer, he removes his jacket, hanging it off the back of his chair. His eyes catch once more on the decadent arrangement of roses – sliding unwillingly to that little white card. The phrases “next morning’s shower” and “best thing about every day” seem magically magnified and brighter than the rest of the message.

Sweet Christ. It’s like some car accident on the highway.  

With effort, he yanks his gaze away and pulls his phone from his pocket. Unlocking it, he maneuvers to his texts, checking to see if Jackie has messaged back.

Seeing her reply, he types a quick but sweet response, and then feels himself perceptibly relax. Strangely, he’s found that the purposeful act of trying to be better for her – something he’s only recently pursued with real effort – just makes him feel good. Initiating communication, picking up the first time she calls, actively listening to her stories about work, friends, her photography projects – just being a better boyfriend, full stop – now gives him this little high. Weirdly, it feels similar to the high of a hard training session – purposeful and productive.

He can pinpoint this shift to the morning after his long sleepless night on the couch a few days ago. Before the sun had risen, he’d awakened to the gentle rumble and smell of brewing coffee, one arm and leg dangling awkwardly off of her sectional. Blearily, he’d peeled himself off the cushions and staggered into the semi-darkened kitchen, only to find her on her knees, her head and shoulders completely inside one of the lower cabinets.

A few seconds later, she’d emerged holding a skillet, startling slightly.

“Hey,” she’d said, her voice uncertain. Raw, red-rimmed eyes had watched him nervously, her tiny frame dwarfed by one of his old skate shop t-shirts and a pair of his boxer shorts, the waistband rolled up. “I’m sorry…I was trying to be quiet. I just thought you could probably use a real breakfast before your flight.”

Reaching back, he’d flipped on the light switch, illuminating the scene before him clearly.

Fresh cut banana, strawberries and kiwi had been tossed in a clear glass bowl, next to a pie pan of fluffy biscuits, the potholder still resting on the edge. Thick, juicy strips of bacon sat crisscrossed on a plate, the cookie sheet on which they’d baked propped in the sink. Next to the stove top, there’d been another clear bowl, this one holding a fork submerged between five pale yellow egg yolks. He’d walked toward the stove and peered into the milky white and yellow mass.

“I just need to finish the scrambled eggs,” she’d said tentatively, and he’d turned to look at her again, his butt resting on the handle of the lower oven. As if to illustrate her point, she’d raised the skillet and tried to smile, her lower lip trembling.

They regarded each other silently in the coffee, bacon-scented stillness. She’d just looked sad and somehow diminished. He’d remembered her quiet question in the car, how he’d brushed off her off.

In the creeping light of that morning, his future had never seemed clearer. Either he remained in the unhealthy swamp of his feelings for Tessa and expected any future significant other to meet him there, or he willingly climbed the fuck out and changed his approach.

Almost at the same time, he’d said, “I’m sorry about last night, Jack,” just as she’d said, “Last night was on me.”

There’d been a half-second pause, and then they’d both laughed, before she’d shuffled forward, burying her face in his chest. When he wrapped his arms around her, he’d thought she might break in a million pieces if he wasn’t careful.

“It really was my fault,” she’d whispered thickly into his bare chest, a few of her tears sliding down the length of his stomach. “I trust you, and I hope you can trust me to handle everything better next time. I won’t ever put you in that position again, ok? I promise you that.”

She’d raised her tear-streaked face then and kissed him, at first softly before growing feverish and demanding. He’d made love to her on the kitchen floor a few minutes later, her arms and legs hooked tightly around his torso and hips. His knees had screamed in pain as they dug into the cold tile.

When she’d climaxed, she’d held his face gently with both hands, her eyes squeezed shut as teardrops clung to the dark fringe of her lashes. In the moment, she’d looked like she was surrendering. To him and whatever they were doing. To the fear of what had been. And maybe even to the fear of what could be.

In the days since, a new steady state had formed between them. It was as if the act of finally acknowledging the elephant-in-the-room that is Tessa had weirdly brought them closer together instead of further apart. They’d confronted the topic that had eventually killed all of his past romantic relationships and lived to tell the tale.

(He hadn’t, however, told her that tonight’s prep session only has two attendees. Or that it's being conducted in Tessa’s hotel suite.)

“Ooooooh…this is one of the songs I have on my list!”

Tessa’s voice snaps him back into the present so hard that he jumps, the hand wrapped around his beer glass jerking enough to knock his glass sideways, spilling beer onto the table. In the background, Kacey Musgraves sings sweetly about where exactly you and your high horse can go.

“I’m the worst at disturbing the peace,” she moans as she looks at the beer dripping off the table onto the floor, before darting into the bar area in search of napkins. She emerges holding a white hand towel instead, and hands it to him, grabbing his now empty glass. “One morning a few weeks ago, Nate was making breakfast, and I thought he knew I was in the pantry so I popped out. An entire blender of smoothie goes everywhere…splattered up the kitchen cabinets, in the tile grout, all over him…it was total homicide scene.”

She laughs genuinely at the memory, and turns back to the bar, as sounds of another bottle opening filter out. The beer on the table feels oddly lukewarm on his palms as it soaks through the thin hand towel.

“He’s gotta up his game. Blending a smoothie is not making you breakfast,” he says, and then instantly regrets the dig, fearing it makes him sound petty and maybe even jealous.

Which he totally isn’t.   

But when she sets a full beer glass in front of him and settles in the chair nearest the open laptop, she’s completely relaxed, her smile unbothered.

“You haven’t had one of Nate’s smoothies,” she says, shrugging easily. “They’re amazing. And, you know how it is…he’s on a training diet year-round, and I’m trying to stay disciplined before the tour. But also failing occasionally.” Grinning sheepishly, she lifts her beer glass to him, before taking a long drink.

It occurs to him that Tessa has never ever talked about a boyfriend before with this much ease. They’d spent thousands of hours over the last 20 years together, so it isn’t like she’s never talked about them…it’s just she’d always been awkward or uncomfortable or uptight in the moment. Or some combination of those three things.

Before he can dissect this revelation further, she runs her fingers through her wet hair, and then pulls it back into a low bun with a hair band from her wrist, her face set into her patented Get Shit Done expression.

“Ok, I don’t want to monopolize your whole night, so let’s get to it,” she says through a mouthful of beer, setting her glass down and pulling the computer closer to her. “You want to start with your list of ideas or mine?”

“I don’t have some color-coded spreadsheet,” he says, eyeing her furrowed look of concentration and her pointer finger scrolling rapidly down the touchpad of the computer keyboard. “I just have a list of songs on my phone.”

“Yep, that works.” A little puff of irritated relief huffs out of her as she apparently finds the file she’s been looking for. In the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling window behind her, her laptop screen is clearly visible.

“Are we just gonna just pretend that you, in fact, do not have a color-coded spreadsheet of songs in front of you right now?”

“Go ahead and start, wise-ass,” she says archly, taking another swig of her beer.

 Smirking, Scott fishes his phone out of his pocket and thumbs to his notes, clearing his throat.

“First, I know you’re not a country music fan,” he begins, readying himself for a negotiation. “But if--”

“That’s patently false. I do like country – I just don’t like douche-bro country. There’s a difference.”

“Eric Church isn’t a douche, but ok--”

“He wears sunglasses inside.”

“He has an eye disorder, you heartless, heartless woman,” Scott says in a wounded tone that makes both of them laugh. “Anyway, I wasn’t thinking Eric Church – ALTHOUGH YOU SHOULD BE SO LUCKY TO SKATE TO HIM – I was thinking more like…Chris Stapleton.”

Her eyes light up as she begins to smile and nod, and like one of Pavlov’s dogs, he feels instantly gratified. He swipes out of his notes app, and begins to hunt in his music for the song he wants to play as an example.

“Wait,” she says incredulously, pausing to look at him, her phone now in her hand, her music app open. “How has this never come up? I LOVE Chris Stapleton. I can’t believe we’ve never talked about this. His voice has so much character.” She lifts her phone slightly as an acoustic guitar begins to play. “I love Tennessee Whiskey, but the lyrics wouldn’t work for a family show. But, this one could be so perfect. You’ve heard it, right?”

 _Well, I wish I could say_  
_That I've never been here before_  
_But you know and I know_  
_That I'll always come back for more_  
_Your love might be my damnation_  
_But I'll cry to my grave_

 _Fire away_  
_Take your best shot_  
_Show me what you got_  
_Honey, I'm not afraid_  
_Rear back and take aim_  
_And fire away_

He smiles vaguely, as his insides slide down his rib cage into gut like slow-moving sludge.

 _Yeah, I’ve heard it one or two times,_ he thinks dryly, remembering one particularly drunken night last summer when he’d fallen asleep and then woken up the next morning to it on repeat. _It’s one of those 10,000 songs in the world that’s only about you._

“It’s a great song,” he agrees, standing up and moving to the kitchenette to grab another round for them both. “But, I think it’s too slow, honestly. We could bump up the BPM…I just think it’ll change the vibe of the song too much.”

He doesn’t look at her as he sits down again, instead focusing on his phone, as he flips back to his notes. “Maybe we should look at our lists and start with up-tempo options. Dark Times brings drama and angst. We need something to comparable to You Rock My World.”

“So now I’m trying to convince you, Scott Moir, to pick a country song?” she asks, chuckling. “It’s like I don’t even know who either of us are anymore.”

Maybe it’s the juxtaposition of her easy, flippant laugh to the still vivid memory of listening to this raw voice over and over again that summer night as he revisited every fuck up and missed opportunity with her. Just pathetically hoping that maybe somewhere she’d been doing the same.

But, of course she hadn’t. She wouldn’t. Tessa Virtue doesn’t wallow.

She assesses. She forms an action plan. And then she executes.

Pity parties and pining are for mere mortals.

“Are you trying to convince me to pick a country song?” he asks a bit more acidly than he’d planned. “Or are you trying to convince me to pick yet another song that’ll make the crazies on social media wonder if we’re just one inconvenient Scott girlfriend away from happily ever after? I’m not trying to make Jackie’s situation even harder – the bullshit she’s dealt with over the past few months is fucking shameful.”

Scott breathes through his nose for a few seconds, trying to tip the tone of the conversation back to more even ground. “I just want to be mindful of that type of thing going forward. It’s different now – there are other people in our lives to consider when we’re making these decisions, you know?”  


The loudest three seconds of silence ever follows this outburst. He looks down at the table, spinning his phone, unable to meet her gaze.

When he finally looks up, she’s watching him with a neutral expression, her hands clasped loosely in her lap.

“It was just a suggestion,” she says quietly, her eyes holding his steadily. “If you think a song or theme is problematic – for whatever reason – let’s just move on to the next option. At the end of the day, you know music and storylines are always joint decisions. I want you to be 100 percent happy with our direction.”

Fuck. Now he feels like a reactionary asshole.

With rapidly building embarrassment, he opens his mouth to try and further diffuse the tension he created when she flicks her eyes back to her laptop and says innocently, “Maybe we just start by looking at our song lists and asking ourselves, ‘What would the Shib Sibs do?’ and then take it from there.”

Jesus Christ.

He chokes on a snort laugh just as her phone begins to vibrate wildly on the table. It’s lying flat on the table between them, the screen filled with a photo of a half-naked blonde guy lying asleep under a white duvet he’d recognize anywhere.

“Is it cool if I take this really quickly?” Tessa flashes him an apologetic smile, rising and scooping the phone off of the table. “Shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says automatically to her back, as she slips into the bedroom.

Although slightly muffled, he can still hear her perfectly through the wall. Her voice is lowered, her tone intimate.

“Hey love,” she says, and he knows without needing to see her face the precise smile she’s wearing. A pause. “Yeah, they were delivered today and they’re crazy beautiful.” A laugh, and then, “Have you seen _you_ lately? I don’t think you can say that definitively.”

Without thinking, he picks up his phone from the table, unlocks it and taps his recent call list. It rings only twice, before her sweet, slightly hoarse voice pours over the line.

“I miss you,” he says by way of greeting. “What are you doing right now?”

The door to the bedroom opens, and Tessa reappears, her phone clutched in one hand as she makes her way back to her chair.

“You and your week-in-advance packing habit.” His eyes find her green ones across the table, and they both smile briefly, before looking away. “Throw in a couple of dresses and bathing suits,” he continues lightly as he shifts his gaze to the twinkling lights of the downtown Toronto skyline. “It’s spring in Mallorca…how complicated can that be?”


	10. Mallorca 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6,000-plus words on Mallorca. I aimed for 4,000, so depending on your opinion, I'm sorry/you're welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not a single clue if anyone still cares about this fic, given how long it's taken me to finish this chapter. Here's the good news...I like where I ended up, and I think the five of you still reading and caring will like it too. It's got a few of my favorite fic things, including a bar scene fraught with sexual tension, wrenching awkwardness and a new original character who's super fun to write (and who'll reappear later, so don't forget about her).
> 
> Enjoy, and then tell me what you think...good, bad or indifferent. Pretty please?

**_May 9, 2019_ **

It’s raining heavily the night of their welcome reception in Mallorca – heavy, dense sheets that blow diagonally with such force that the planned patio reception has to be moved to the indoor bar area of the resort.

The humidity is pervasive, clinging stubbornly to the nape of Tessa's neck, down which a rivulet of sweat periodically runs into the collar of her linen top. The ceiling fans are on in the high-ceilinged bar area, but the air still feels stagnant and wet.

Struggling to listen attentively to the older couple in front of her, who are regaling her with a play-by-play of their daughter’s fledgling (but promising!) publishing career, Tessa gathers her now wavy hair into a ponytail, securing it midway up her head with an elastic from her wrist.

“I think she just needs the right connections, you know?” the woman, who’d introduced herself as Linda, says eagerly, tucking her expertly and expensively cut silvery blonde bob behind her ear. “Your book has done so, so well…I’d just love to pick your brain on any tips you and Scott have for breaking into the publishing industry.”

“Oh, I’m not sure how many tips we really have, to be honest.” She gives the woman and her husband, Bob, her best modest smile, while trying to catch one of the roving waiter’s eyes for another glass of wine. “It’s not like we set out to write a book. It was just one of the opportunities that materialized after the Vancouver Games. Most of that process was handled by our agent at the time.”

This is not strictly true, of course. They were both actively involved in selecting a writer to work with for the book, and Tessa worked closely with their management team on the actual contract itself. But, the book deal had sought them out – not the other way around. So, truthfully, she really didn’t think she could be all that helpful.

The more worrisome part of this conversation is that it’s an hour into their first night of the trip…and these two are already hitting her up for a favor.

Go ahead and put money on the fact that ‘share your best tips’ will morph into ‘hook us up with a book agent’ by the end of the week.

On every one of these trips, there’s at least one. They tend to be middle-aged or older, with a locked and loaded agenda that often include introduction requests to other famous/rich people, investment pitches, a sudden desire to be their new wealth manager (or connect them with their brother, sister, son or daughter who’s a financial planner), or the like. Once identified properly, she and Scott had in the past taken turns alternately neutralizing or dodging the moochers.

Her eyes stray across the room, where he and his girlfriend stand amid a small crowd. Their hips are nearly touching as they talk animatedly with a young couple who look to be in their mid-thirties. While she watches, the man turns mid-sentence, waving over a tall, elegant woman in her mid-60s and a striking redhead who looks like her daughter.

In that moment, Scott cups the back of Jackie’s neck and pulls her to him, brushing a quick kiss to her cheek, nuzzling the space below her ear for a second before letting her go and greeting the new pair. His fingers find hers and intertwine briefly.

“I tell you what,” Tessa says, her gaze snapping back to Linda and Bob’s determined, eager faces. “Let me think on it and get back with you. It feels like this jet lag is holding my brain hostage.”

The couple laughs obligingly, and five minutes later, she’s seamlessly excused herself to grab a small plate of tapas and a wine refill.

Turning from the buffet, she’s searching for a cocktail table and some dinner companions less obnoxious than the moochers when she feels slightly moist fingers lightly grasp her elbow.

“Hey Tessa!” The voice is warm but careful…and immediately recognizable.

She’s only been around Jackie a handful of times, but in every instance, she’s always taken aback at first by how tiny she is.

And badly dressed.

 _I’m a terrible fucking person_ , she thinks somewhat miserably, smiling brightly at her and her visible bra straps, which are different shade of black than her sundress. _A totally judgmental, uppity asshole._

(Who also happens to be 100 percent right in this instance.)

It’s not like Tessa doesn’t know that her own style isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But Jesus. The situation in front of her is just objectively unfortunate.

“Hey there,” she answers, still beaming for all she’s worth. “I’ve been trying to make my way over to say hi, but someone else always pops up to chat.”

This is a lie. She’s not tried to make her way over to them at all.

Instead, she’s hung out on one side of the room exclusively, talking with anyone who makes prolonged eye contact, all the while covertly searching for her next conversational target to ensure no downtime.

“I think I’ve underestimated just how much talking there’s going to be this week.” Jackie’s smile is rueful and a bit nervous, her thin lips parting just enough to show a flash of teeth. She’s forced to take a step toward Tessa, as a woman squeezes behind her to join the growing buffet line.

They’re now standing weirdly close to one another – close enough that Tessa can smell her grapefruit body lotion.

“I do hope that maybe we’ll get a chance to talk more this week,” Jackie says, transferring her wine to the opposite hand and pulling her hair over one shoulder. A fine layer of sweat beads her upper lip in the muggy room. “I’d love to get to know you better, and I think it would mean a lot to Scott, too.”

Tessa reloads and fires another megawatt smile again, catching Jackie’s eye and holding it before turning her gaze to the crowded room.

_It would mean a lot to Scott if our interactions could just stay thimble deep. Surface-level bullshit between you and me from now until the end of time would be his happiest dream come true._

“I think that’s a great idea,” she agrees, glancing back at the petite blonde. “I will say this trip is a bit of a tricky one. I get hung up on the fact that our job is to ensure paying guests get their money’s worth and want to continue to donate to the cause. It’s work, even if it feels like play sometimes.”

Tessa chuckles and gestures to their beautiful surroundings. “Which I guess is an easy price to pay when you get to work in a place like this.”

Jackie nods, her smile a bit stiffer now. Her glass tips back as she takes another sip of her wine. “Such a bummer Nate couldn’t be here,” she says, not troubling to lower her voice. “I know Scott and I are really looking forward to meeting him. It would have been so much fun to all hang out together this week.” A text flashes across the screen of Jackie’s Apple watch just then, and the flicker of light causes them both to look down momentarily.

When their gazes reconnect, Jackie says, with a sweetness that sets Tessa’s teeth on edge, “I’m just so impressed you came alone. I’d be too bored and lonely and end up miserable.”

Naturally, it’s at this precise moment her eyes find Scott’s for the first time all night.

He’s watching the pair of them pensively, one hand shoved into the pocket of some new slacks Tessa’s never seen before. They’re too wide for his frame and make her think of SpongeBob SquarePants.

“Don’t be too impressed – I travel alone so much that I don’t even think about it anymore. I guess it’s relaxing to me…or maybe I’m just self-sufficient to a fault.” Tessa’s voice is even as she and her business partner steadily hold each other’s gaze across the room. His eyes appear nearly black in the warm yellow mood lighting of the bar. “It sounds like Scott’s more like you. He needs company and distractions.”

Rocking back slightly on his heels in his too-big pants, Scott watches her impassively.   

She’s tempted to stare until he looks away first.

Instead, she takes a breath and begins to scan the crowd, landing a few feet to his right on Diane, the tour director. Outfitted with a nametag and crisp, white Great Kitchen Party embroidered polo and khakis, she’s currently flipping through a thick binder behind a small table in the corner, a helpfully labeled sign bearing the words, “GKP Excursion Information” taped to the front edge.

“Excuse me for a second,” she says smoothly, glancing back to Jackie, her legs and brain already two steps ahead. “I need to chat with Diane about the schedule for this week.”

*********************

Tessa has certain expectations about what this trip will and won’t be – most of which seem to be coming to fruition now that she’s four days in.

She’s knows what she didn’t expect, though.

That the best part of the trip – hands down – would be nearly six feet tall, with a dark red high ponytail that feels indefatigable and a pair of dimples that have met the Kinsey Scale and declared it their bitch.  

When she’d encountered Tate the morning of the kickoff group hike after recognizing her from the previous evening’s welcome dinner, she was immediately drawn to her hoarse, barking laugh and the hilarious back-and-forth banter between her and her equally beautiful but infinitely more high-maintenance mother, Ava, who’d looked mildly horrified upon learning the hike didn’t include golf cart transport.

At a long, leisurely picnic lunch the same day at a nearby winery, they’d sat next to each other, falling easily into conversation about life and work and everything in between over multiple glasses of toffee-noted Gorgollassa. It was that kind of instant but very real connection that sometimes develops – however improbably – between two strangers who just seem to get each other.

As a person who both is naturally reserved and naturally cautious about new friendships – particularly since becoming a semi-public figure after the Vancouver Games – Tessa inexplicably finds herself nonetheless scanning her excursion lists with Diane each morning, hoping to see Tate’s name.

After the first day’s hike and picnic, the two find themselves chatting during a wine tour, hanging out at the pool together during cocktail hour and running into each other on a morning jog before repeating the meet-up the next two mornings. 

An accountant by trade but a photographer by heart, she’s California-born to Canadian parents, her family moving back to Toronto when she was a toddler, just in time for her college professor father to run off with one of his students a few months later, leaving her mother to raise her alone. Accordingly, Tate seems to be both fiercely loyal to and hilariously exasperated by Ava, who is, she claims, “the most lovable pain in my ass.” A self-proclaimed “book slut,” Tate insists she’d choose reading over any other activity (which is deeply relatable) and one afternoon at the pool, Tessa notices a Neil Gaiman quote tattooed down her ribs. She also learns that Tate hates feet and harbors a deep revulsion and judgment for toe rings and the people who wear them.

(Because Jackie had been wearing open-toed sandals on the evening of the welcome dinner, Tessa knows Scott’s girlfriend is the proud owner of not one but two toe rings. By an act of providence, she’d happened to be standing next to Tate when Jackie had sidled up to their group on the pool deck earlier that week, jeweled toe rings winking in the sunlight. Watching Tate’s facial expressions for the subsequent 30 seconds had been life-giving.)

By the halfway marker of the trip, they’ve hung out enough that she now knows as much about Tate as some friends she’s known for years. The two of them just have conversational chemistry – plain and simple.  

Last night, as she and Tate had lounged on her suite balcony after dinner, drinking tart sangria they’d smuggled up from the bar, she’d also learned that Tate’s husband, an investment banker, had left her without any warning last fall. Just came home early from work one afternoon while Tate was still at the office, packed up two giant rolling suitcases and moved out. On the kitchen table, he’d left a meticulously formatted and dated (!!!) typed note, explaining that their relationship lacked “a goal-oriented focus” and any “discernible synergies” – things he’d apparently found with one of his company’s college interns.

(“He also wrote that his heart was ‘in a different season of life’ than mine,” she’d said, rolling her eyes and laughing. “His dick was certainly enjoying a ‘different season of life.’ Whether he actually has a heart is unconfirmed.”)

For as much talking as they’ve done though, there’s been no discussion of Scott or his very perky plus-one. And God bless her, Tate hasn’t asked – hasn’t even hinted around any of it – the public rumors, the fact that she and Scott haven’t really interacted on the trip or their relationship at all. In fact, none of their conversations thus far have delved into her love life in any capacity.

It feels like that’s going to change tonight.

“There’s shuttle vans taking people to some bar called Goodfellas,” Tate says, grimacing slightly as the club’s name passes her lips. With the formal dinner just concluded, she and Tessa stand in the resort’s main foyer, where they will, apparently, either take the main staircase up to the guest room elevators to call it a night or join the small clusters of tour guests trickling towards the circle drive out front.

Tate pauses and considers Tessa. “I mean, the cover charge _does_ include a free shot, a glow-in-the-dark necklace and a DJ named--” She consults her phone again and clears her throat meaningfully. “…Captain Octopussy.”

“Say no more,” Tessa replies seriously, her hand frozen on the latch of her straw clutch. “We can’t miss the opportunity to witness the transcendent artistry of Captain Octopussy.”

“No,” Tate agrees, her tone equally as grave. “No, I think we owe it to our future selves. Regret of that magnitude would be hard to live with.”

Then she lets rip one of her big, hoarse belly laughs, which makes Tessa laugh too.

“But seriously,” Tate hiccups, checking her phone for the time. “I think I’m going to go. I need a palate cleanser after watching my mother intimately slow dance with Sheriff Woody.”

“First of all, his name is Dan, and he seems very nice,” Tessa valiantly tries to suppress another bout of laughter. “But back on topic – Goodfellas and DJ Octopussy are palate cleansers? Is that what you’re going with?”

“ _Captain_ Octopussy,” Tate chides, smiling angelically as she begins to walk backwards in the direction of the front entrance. “Put some respect on the name. Also, I think you could use some cringe-y white people dancing and questionable beverage choices tonight, too.”

From the gentle, knowing expression on Tate’s face right now, she suddenly knows that Tate knows precisely what’s caused the tight knot of tension in her gut that’s only just now – a full two hours later – begun to dissolve.

She sighs, and unlatches her clutch, rifling through the inside pocket until she confirms she packed her ID and credit card. Then, shaking her head in mock disgust as Tate does a silent victory dance, Tessa marches past her new friend toward the waiting shuttle. 

*************************  
  
The night had started out predictably enough. Since the trip agenda had been shared with them a few months ago, she and Scott had known they’d be the featured dinner speakers on this particular evening, followed by live music by Bill Henderson and Anne Lindsay. They’d received the questions the moderator, a higher-up from B2ten, would ask in advance. They’d even briefly talked through their respective answers via email a few days before their arrival – something they rarely did.

And, as expected, the talk had indeed gone smoothly, with no overly awkward live questions to navigate, and afterwards, the two of them had posed for pictures on the makeshift stage, their arms draped around one another’s upper back in a casual way. (Or as casually as is possible when leaving four inches of room for the Holy Spirit.)

Fifteen minutes later, and actually beginning to enjoy herself, Tessa had just ordered a second glass of Rioja Gran Reserva from one of the waiters when she’d heard Bill call from the stage, craning his neck as his eyes swept the room, “Tessa and Scott? Can I get you two to join me up here?”

Shaking his long gray hair out of his eyes, Bill had winked at them, as they stood beside him, before turning to the crowd and beginning to strum a series of gentle but melancholy chords.

“I know I said the best music was born in the 1970s,” he’d said as his fingers continued to strum. “And I stand by that. But, I’m going to end tonight with a tune made popular in the 80s and covered twenty years later by Chris Cornell – one of the best musical talents the world will ever see, may he rest in peace.”

Still playing, he’d turned to Scott and Tessa. “Would you do me the honor of a dance to my last song of the night?”

What could they have said? The only feasible answer had been ‘yes.’

Settling into a comfortable dance hold had been awkward at first, Scott’s arm moving from the middle of her back to sit atop her shoulders before sliding down to her back again. She’d tried to balance out his fidgeting by planting her hand in the middle of his shoulder blades, curving her fingertips slightly to hold on.

After a minute, he’d perceptibly relaxed as their bodies fell into rhythm, hips and upper bodies moving in perfect symmetry.

 _This is the constant_ , she’d thought, as he turned her and the chorus began anew. _Everything else may never get easier. But we’ll always know how to do this._

At the tail end of this thought, she’d felt Scott’s thumb tickle her palm and she’d looked up, making direct eye contact with him for the first time since the song had begun. One corner of his mouth had been quirked in a small smile – one that she had known instinctively wasn’t for the crowd or anyone else, but just for her.

She’d smiled back, and in a matter of a minute or so, the song was over, and a vague sense of accomplishment filled her at how smoothly they’d handled that unexpected situation.

Perhaps she should have found some wood to knock on before letting that thought materialize.

Just as she and Scott had made it halfway back to their seats on opposite sides of the room, a few in the crowd had begun shout for an encore.

“If there’s dancing, I’m in,” Jim had called back, grinning broadly at a couple in the front row who were cheering appreciatively.

Smiling a little bit fixedly by that point, Tessa had dutifully turned and was most of the way back to the stage when she’d heard familiar female laughter on the other side of Jim and stopped, peering around his guitar stand.

Scott had Jackie by the hand, his head thrown back in laughter as he pulled her toward the open area where he and Tessa had been dancing only a minute before. The expression on Jackie’s face had been so nakedly adoring, so unabashedly in love that Tessa had immediately averted her eyes.

God, she’d felt so stupid and so embarrassed in that moment. In hindsight, Jim hadn’t been specific with his words – she should have known Scott would want to dance with his girlfriend.

But there she’d stood – stuck in the no man’s land between her seat and the front of the room. It had felt like everyone was staring right at her, casually observing her humiliation.

Maybe even worse – she’d known for a fact that Scott had observed her humiliation. In her moment of frozen indecision, he’d turned, Jackie gathered into his arms, and they’d looked directly at one another. Eyes widened and lips parted, she’d watched as his brain made sense of her awkward hovering at the edge of the dance floor. 

Thankfully, two seconds later, Isaac, an elderly gentleman who she’d been seated with at lunch the day before, had genially asked her to dance.

 _It felt more conspicuous to you in the moment than it really was to everyone else_. _Don’t blow a few awkward seconds wildly out of proportion,_ she tells herself sternly, following Tate off of the shuttle to stand in a short queue outside the bar’s entrance after a 20 minute drive across the island.

The night breeze is balmy and almost tacky in its stickiness, with an earthy scent that tells her rain is a certainty tonight, not a percentage. Lazily, it ruffles the grass-green canvas awnings that flank the perimeter of the bar, which are slightly faded by the sun but still festive with tangles of tiny white lights draped across. The name Goodfellas is carved into a weathered wooden sign that hangs just above the covered entrance, where a tiny man in a pressed white linen shirt and equally tidy dress pants is jovially welcoming the arriving patrons.

After collecting their neon glow-in-the-dark necklaces and free shot voucher and entering the club properly, Tessa is surprised at how un-tacky the interior of the space actually is.

Goodfellas, which is shaped like an upside down L so that the main entrance is more like the side entrance, has the air of once-trendy spot gone slightly (but just slightly) to seed. It’s a tourist bar – no escaping that reality – but there are no scantily clad waitstaff aggressively peddling trays of liquor shots in test tubes and the space is charming and a little playful, with a mix of large, vibrantly colorful framed sketches of what look like neighborhood locals hanging from the white-washed brick walls. As a surprisingly good remix of a Billie Eilish song pulses out of the open air patio, Tessa thinks that maybe what this place lacks in sophistication, it makes up for in vibe and sheer heart.

Tate suggests a real drink (not the complimentary shot, which both of them agree is too much too soon) so they wait around the crowded bar for a few minutes, chatting with some of the other tour guests before finally catching one of the bartenders and ordering two glasses of house sangria.

Drinks in hand, they make their way to the large covered, open-air patio that proportionally is mostly dance floor with a smattering of bistro and small two-top tables around the edges. After snagging an open table and settling into her high-back stool, Tessa notices the generic house music now playing at a drastically lowered volume.

“Check it out… I think it’s almost Octopussy time,” Tate says quietly, motioning with her head to the DJ booth to their left, as she gathers her riotous copper hair off her neck and secures into a high ponytail. Holding her hands in a classic meditation pose, she adds, “My body is ready.”

Sure enough, the booth sits empty, as a waitress carries a tray of water bottles and Moritz Epidor, a local craft beer Tessa is now semi-obsessed with, around the back of the enclosure, squatting down to unload the beverages into a small cooler.

“What’s the over-under he’s wearing some offensive, douche t-shirt that he thinks is high-brow and edgy?” Tessa asks, plucking a piece of wine-soaked apple from her cup and popping it into her mouth.

The words no sooner leave her mouth when dissonant, eerie electronic chords that sound like a choir of ambulance sirens blast through the speakers. The lights dim nearly black, the room now illuminated almost solely by glow-in-the-dark necklaces and cell phone screens. People begin cheering and whistling, and the bar area seems to be emptying, quickly filling up the open space on the patio.

Then, out of a patio side door near the far entrance emerges a tall, lithe woman with skin the color of freshly ground coffee, who is lit only by spotlight. She’s wearing the distinctive black lapelled red coat and black hat of Captain Obvious, her long dark microbraids swinging freely down her back. Instead of normal black slacks, she’s wearing black sequined hot pants.

As she strides toward the booth, her long form accentuated by five-inch heeled combat boots, the downbeat drops like a hammer exploding through a piece of plywood, as Wiz Khalifa’s voice echoes off the ceiling.

 _Looking at me like Captain, they treat me like Captain_  
_Know where I’m goin’ like Captain, show up when I want like Captain_  
_Everywhere I go I’m a Captain_  
_Everywhere I go I’m a Captain_  
_Everywhere I go I’m a Captain_  
_Everywhere I go I’m a Captain_

“Oh fuck yes,” Tessa whispers to the room at large, as Tate throws her head back and whoops.

Captain Octopussy is a beautiful, fierce woman.

“This is your captain speaking,” she says into the booth mike, her voice low and throaty and weirdly familiar. “I only have two rules tonight. One: No faces stuck in phones. Live the fucking life in front of you.” She pauses and grins. “Two: Tip the staff. They deserve it.”

It’s the accent. That’s what’s familiar.

“She’s Canadian,” Tessa shouts gleefully over a throwback Jay-Z song, grinning as Tate begins to move to a beat so infectious that even the over-50s in the room are bobbing their heads.

“Of course she’s Canadian,” Tate yells back, shaking her ass and hips to The Jackson 5 sample. “Look at her. She’s fucking magnificent.”

For the next hour, they dance like maniacs, pulling in tour folks every now and then into their circle, and only leaving the dance floor for short periods to alternately guzzle water and sangria.

Right about the time Tessa decides it’s time for another round of sangria, she hears the telltale dueling piano notes rumbling out of the speakers, and she freezes in place. Grabbing Tate’s arm, she throws her head back and right on cue screams, “Why men great til they gotta be great?”

“I see we’re going to work through some things right now, and I support it,” Tate says with shrug and throws the rest of her sangria back. Tessa laughs because maybe that’s exactly what she’s doing.

Then they’re both yelling the lyrics, so loudly that Tessa catches the DJ grinning at them, shaking her head.

 _I just took a DNA test, turns out I’m 100 percent that bitch_  
_Even when I crying crazy_  
_Yeah, I got boy problems, that’s the human in me_  
_Bling bling, then I solve ‘em, that’s the goddess in me_  
_You coulda had a bad bitch, noncommittal_  
_Help you with your career, just a little_  
_You’re ‘posed to hold me down, but you’re holding me back_  
_And that’s the sound of me not calling you back_

At some point in the middle of the bridge, Tessa knows – just knows in the soft spot between her ribs – he’s watching. Earlier she’d seen him and his girlfriend at the edge of the dance floor, his laugh carrying across the room as they danced closely, one of his hands glued to her hip. But she’d turned her back to the sound, resolved to keep at bay the little rain cloud of awkwardness that seems to hover overhead any time the three of them are in the same vicinity.  

As she sings and dances, Tessa tips her face up and closes her eyes. The rolling, persistent press of his stare feels like standing under the steady drum of a hot shower.

 _We don’t fuck with lies_  
_We don’t do goodbyes_  
_We just keep it pushing like ay yi yi_

She’s always liked to pick scabs until a little blood comes to the surface, so as the last chorus plays, she looks directly at Scott and meets his gaze. Intuitively, she knows exactly where he is in the room.

Legs splayed out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, he’s sitting alone at one of the small low tables in the opposite corner of the dance floor, one hand gripping a beer and the other wrapped around the arm of the chair.

This time, she stares back unblinking until he looks away first.

***************

It had been pouring rain when the shuttle vans left Goodfellas. There had been no way to avoid getting soaked, given that it took drunk people (in this case, many old drunk people) a minute to crawl in and around the interiors of three-row passenger vans.

In the end, Tessa isn’t sure how she ended up in the same van with Scott and Jackie. There had been a lot of chaos once people started making a break from the covered awnings to where the shuttles had parked, and the rain had been coming down so hard that it was impossible to tell who was who as she’d singled out the one with the shortest queue.

When she’d climbed in, throwing herself into the far side of the empty first row of seats to allow the few people behind her into the dry haven, she’d looked up to find herself face to face with Scott and Jackie.

She and Scott hadn’t talked to each other on the ride back, although Tessa is certain that the others in the van hadn’t perceived it that way. (Well, maybe Tate had seen it for what it was, judging by the way she’d cut her eyes sideways at Tessa a few times.) The truth was they’d just talked around each other, building off each other’s sentences without ever directly addressing the other. It’s a hard concept to explain (as the multitude of therapists she’s had over the years would certainly all agree), but as always, this little trick had gotten the job done.

Now, half an hour later, her makeup removed and dressed for bed in a thin black cotton tank and sleep shorts, she realizes after a few minutes of frantic searching that her godforsaken cell phone must still be in the van.

She knows she didn’t leave it at the club because she’d buried her nose in Instagram the last few minutes of the drive back to drown out the sound of Jackie recounting the trip she and Scott are planning in August to Vancouver. The effing thing must of have fallen out of her clutch.

Sighing, she slips off her sleep shorts and throws on a pair of cut-offs she “borrowed” from her sister, Jordan, two years ago, sliding her room key into the back pocket. Trudging wearily to the elevators, she quickly catches one (as there’s no real elevator traffic at 3 in the morning), and when the door opens, she steps off into the landing without really looking, nearly running head first into a warm body.

“Since when do you wear glasses?”

She blinks, staring stupidly at Scott for a second as her fingers graze her oversized tortoise shell glasses, before taking two steps sideways to give them both some space. 

Opening her mouth to reply, she stops abruptly, suddenly noticing the familiar teal and gold cased iPhone in one of his hands. The other hand is clutching an overly large bottle of Evian – the kind they only sell at gas stations.

“You found my phone?” she asks blankly.

“No, the shuttle driver found it. I just saw it laying on the concierge’s desk when I came down to get more water.” He half raises the bottle, before holding out her phone and smiling slightly. “I was going to drop it by your room, but you saved me a trip.”

He reaches around her then, pressing the elevator button to summon another car. She turns back to face the bank of doors, still feeling a bit discombobulated at this turn of events. As the floor numbers descend one by one on the digital sign above their heads, they stand in complete silence.

Tessa sees his eyes flick over once – just a half-second glance that moves up and down her. Which is when she realizes she forgot to put on a bra before rushing out of her room.

“I wear glasses at night,” she blurts out a little louder than necessary, answering his earlier question even though she’s not sure he really cares about an answer. “Always when I drive in the dark obviously, but sometimes to read and watch TV, too.”

He nods without saying anything else, and a moment later, the elevator doors open. He waits, hand holding the door firmly, to let her enter first.

“What floor are you on?” She’s already pressed her floor, her hand hovering over the row of numbered buttons.

“Same as you,” he answers, looking down at the bottle of water and switching it from his left hand to his right.

Tessa steps back slightly as the doors close. From the waist up, the elevator walls are mirrors, so that no matter where her eye lands, all she can see is his rain mussed hair and threadbare Thank You Ilderton t-shirt.

“I didn’t know we were on the same floor,” she says lightly, suddenly desperate to fill the seconds until the doors open again.

“I did.” He’s looking at the inspection permit taped to the wall in the front of him as if it contains the secret of everlasting life. “I heard Otis Redding on repeat the first morning a couple of rooms over, and I was pretty sure it was you. Then, later that night I heard you sneeze, and I knew for sure.”

There’s a beat of silence and then she lets out a choked laugh, and he laughs too. When she glances up, the reflection of dozens of smiling Scotts surround her.

“Your sneezes are so violently enormous, yet you’re so tiny. It’s a mystery.”

She laughs again, and as the doors open, she steps off, Scott following behind.

“I’ll try to keep my sneezes to a minimum,” she calls over her shoulder as they walk down their apparently shared hallway. “Thanks for grabbing my phone for me.”

He mutters a quick ‘of course’ as she stops at her door, reaching into her back pocket for her key card.

Just as she’s about to lift it to the sensor, he says from right behind her, “Do you want to talk next week before Newfoundland? I think one of the hundred emails GKP sent us mentioned that they want to do an hour instead of 30 minutes for our Q&A.” He pulls out his key card too, his thumb worrying around the edge. “Probably wouldn’t hurt to go over the questions like we did for tonight.”

“Sure,” she agrees, and turns to look at him, her hand on the door handle. “I’ll email you a few dates and times – just let me know what works for you.”

He nods, but doesn’t move. “Or you can just text me.” A pause. “My number hasn’t changed.”

The way he says this last sentence – she doesn’t know how to interpret his tone exactly.

Or maybe she does.

He wants her to text. The same way he’d wanted her to know he had been watching her tonight on the dance floor. But, he also doesn’t really want those things at all. Because it just makes things so much harder.

It’s the same for her.

Leaning into this game they can’t stop playing never leads anywhere good. It just feels good in the moment.

“Duly noted.” Tessa gives him a half smile, registering then the faint but recognizable buzzing noise emanating from his pocket. There’s only one person who would be texting him in the wee hours of the morning. 

Because she’s incredibly shitty at being smart in situations just like this one, she adds, “For the record, my number hasn’t changed either.”

Scott sees her half smile and raises her one of his big grins – the kind that makes the faint crow’s feet that bracket his eyes stand out in sharp relief. The kind that does weird shit to her stomach – even now after everything – _every-fucking-thing_ – she’s been through with him.

“Duly noted.” He’s still grinning, but somehow without her noticing, she realizes he’s taken a couple of steps toward her. They stand there for a couple of seconds, both of their key cards poised for action in their hands.

“Thanks again for snagging this,” she says finally, lifting her cell phone before letting her hand drop back to her side.  

He just nods, his smile faltering, as if it’s suddenly occurred to him that their conversation is now over.

“See you tomorrow for golf?” he asks, looking down at his hands, and she feels a little stab of regret at how hopeful he sounds. which is total bullshit. But, when has sorting through her feelings for Scott Moir not included a high quotient of total and utter bullshit?

“I’m doing the historical tour of Palma.” She looks down, trying to avoid his eyes. “Divide and conquer and all that.”

“Sure,” he says quietly, turning away, as if trying to avoid her eyes now, too. “Good night, Tess.”

Instead of letting herself into her room, she stands there frozen, her eyes glued to his retreating back. Shoulders slumping forward slightly, he walks a few paces to the door two rooms down, before he disappears inside.  

As her room lock clicks a moment later, and she pushes the heavy wooden door open, her eyes staring blindly into the tidy, blandly cheerful interior, she admits to herself that she’d expected him to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO.
> 
> I decided to write the Newfoundland GKP trip at the last minute. I had a fun idea and I couldn't not chase it. I'm halfway through that chapter already.
> 
> *Shrugs* Maybe if I get enough feedback/interest on this chapter, I'll post a preview for you...a little quid pro quo, if you will. :)


	11. Newfoundland 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newfoundland 2019.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I left you, did you? 
> 
> Ok. It would be fair if you did. But! I haven't. Life is busy and beautiful and hard all at the same time, and I only write when I:
> 
> a) have the time  
> b) feel creatively juicy  
> c) the above two things happen at the same time
> 
> Anyway, let me make up the long absence to you with two chapters this week -- this one tonight and then another by Thursday that covers the first day of Osheaga (which includes the return of Jordan Virtue, long may she reign). I'm quite fond of this chapter, tbh. And, I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed creating it for you.

**_Late May 2019_ **

“That’s the most embarrassing thing you can remember from that year? For serious?” Scott asks, tipping up his paper coffee cup of red wine straight up to slurp the dregs. “We’re just going to pretend like Junior Worlds in The Netherlands never happened, eh? When I walked in on you on the toilet changing your--”  


With a strangled yell, Tessa launches one of her discarded runners at him.  


“You will not speak of the Tampon Incident of 2004,” she wheezes with a shudder, her eyes red rimmed and glassy. “I couldn’t look you in the face for like two weeks.”  


They’re very drunk.  


If Scott had to pinpoint how and when they became so drunk, he’d say it was the last round of beers at the final pub crawl stop – a cozy little Newfoundland gem called Trapper John’s with absolutely lethal home brew.  


After their tabs had been settled and goodbyes said, they’d walked back to the hotel, talking and laughing with a few of the remaining upright and coherent tour guests. Every now and then, their shoulders had brushed as they weaved along the narrow cobblestone sidewalk.  


Then, he’d blinked a couple of times and they were all of sudden standing outside her suite. Pushing the door open with her hip, she’d stepped over the threshold and tossed her purse and room key onto the bar, one hand still holding the door open.  


“We could sit on the balcony?” she’d asked, the last two words slurring together ever so slightly. “There was only one suite with a balcony, and I checked in first. I didn’t tell you ‘cause that would be rubbing it in.”  


She’d hiccupped delicately, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and then grinned lopsidedly. “Seems only fair that you should at least get to sit on it?”  


And that is how and why they’re now sprawled out in two side-by-side cushioned chaise lounges on her small balcony, which overlooks historic Water Street, recounting (and arguing about) the trauma of puberties spent in each other’s pockets.  


Somewhere along the way, Tessa had changed into sweatpants, but is for some reason still wearing her navy off-the-shoulder top from their speaking engagement tonight. After excusing herself to change, she’d emerged carrying two paper coffee cups and an open and corked bottle of red wine – a leftover from lunch earlier at a nearby winery.  


“It’ll be spoiled tomorrow,” she’d said with a shrug and a grin. “It’s too good to just throw away.”  


As Tessa sits up to refill her cup, his eyes land on the line of buttons running down her blouse. The bottom three are unbuttoned. When she leans sideways to return the wine bottle to the ground, slivers of black lace over smooth white skin peek out from the parted material.  


Still halfway laughing at the Tampon Incident reference, she cradles her cup between both hands. “I was so fucking pissed at you that Worlds even before you barged in on me. Remember? I had just discovered romance novels, and one had accidentally fallen out of my skate bag in your car the week before – I can’t remember the name of--”  


“ _His Big Stick_. Huge, ripped naked nude on the cover holding a hockey stick strategically over his wang.”  


He says this just as she’s swallowing a gulp of wine, and she begins coughing violently, her eyes streaming.  


“He was not naked,” she sputters, giggling helplessly as she flicks his shoulder. “He had on hockey pants.”  


“False. There were no pants. Just erect man nipples and his hidden Big Stick. After reading a few chapters, I was so squicked out and pathetically turned on. Had to spend some quality time with a towel on my stomach and some Vaseline that night.”  


They’re both gasping with laughter now, as Tessa shakes her head and covers her face with her hands, her expression both amused and horrified.  


“What?” he protests defensively, flinching away as she flicks him hard again. “I was 17. I had always thought of you as this innocent, sweet girl who needed to be protected from all that kind of stuff. And meanwhile, you’re over there reading soft porn with sentences like, ‘He thrust deeply with his steely hard co--”  


With lightning precision, she launches toward him and slaps her hand over his mouth, the faint remnant of perfume on her wrist filling his nose.  


“First,” Tessa says, her voice raised to drown him out, fingertips curved to grip his cheek gently. “I don’t ever need to hear you say the words ‘Vaseline’ or ‘thrust’ again. Particularly in that context, but maybe in any context. Second, the guy on the cover for sure had on pants. Third, it wasn’t soft porn. Jesus H. Christ.”  


They look at each other, laughing breathlessly. He can feel soft skin of her palm against his lips and exposed teeth as he grins at her.  


A few seconds later, her hand returns to her cup, her fingers intertwining with each other.  


“Anyway, you were such an asshole, repeating all the worst parts at me and--”  


“Best parts,” he corrects, interrupting her. “Very best fucking parts, pun intended.”  


Tessa flips him off, huffing out a short laugh. “For a whole week, you were just relentless. I was so mortified. And then you showed up the day before we left for Worlds with that book you’d bought--”  


“ _A Cockney Gentleman_ , with the word ‘cock’ in bright red letters. Naked dude was wearing one of those Fievel Goes West hats on the cover.” He pauses. “A truly great find.”  


“Why are you the way that you are?” she asks in her best, albeit choked, Michael Scott voice, as she sits doubled, tears of laughter streaming down her face.  


“Honestly?” He stares at her hand as it lifts to wipe her eyes. “That was probably the first time I really, you know…”  


Tessa tilts her head as she looks at him, her expression curious – a ghost of a laugh still lingering around the corners of her mouth.  


“I shouldn’t have teased you so much,” he says finally. “It’s just that, until then, I’d tried so hard not to see you as someone who could be…who was…”  


“Horny?” she supplies as his voice finally stalls all the way out.  


“Yes, goddamn it,” he moans, dropping his face into his hands and shaking his head miserably. Tessa is laughing so hard that a loud snort sneaks out, and he begins cracking up again too.  


It’s been a really, really long time since he’s made her laugh like this. He should probably feel ashamed of the absolute rush that it still gives him.  


God, the last few days had basically been perfect. The banter, the vibe…all the little and big stuff – it’s just been loose and free and familiar all at the same time.  


The knowledge of why this trip is different is like a dull butter knife nudging against the little balloon of happiness that surrounds tonight, threatening to puncture it.  


He pictures Tessa’s face when he’d made his way into the hotel bar the night of the welcome reception, her eyes darting around searching for Jackie. Her whole body had perceptibly relaxed when she’d realized he’d traveled alone.  


Truth be told, he’d felt himself relax watching her relax – followed almost immediately by creeping guilt.  


Before he’d left for Newfoundland, he’d told Jackie he loved her for the first time. He hadn’t been drunk or sad or scared when he’d told her either.  


(With past girlfriends, he’d always been one of those three things the first time. Which is fucked up, obviously. He’s not proud of this fact.)  


He’d just felt like he loved her. So, he’d told her so.  


“Did I break your brain over there?”  


Her words jerk him back into the moment, scattering his thoughts. When he looks up, the big, open smile she’s wearing combined with all the wine he’s consumed shoves words out of his mouth before his brain can catch up.  


“Always,” he says, as the balcony swims, tipping to the left slightly. “Talking or thinking about you being horny is a brain breaker ten times outta ten.”  


_Not good_ , he thinks a half-second too late as they stare at each other, the ensuing silence thickening into something dangerous _. Should have kept that bit to myself._  


“You’re very drunk, Scott Moir,” she says finally, her smile now rueful, as she sits up and swings her feet into the space between their two chairs. But as she pushes to stand up, she loses her balance and pitches forward.  


“Fuck,” she grunts as she lands perpendicularly over him, his bent knees falling further apart to accommodate the weight of her upper body.  


“I think we’re both very drunk,” he says in a stage whisper as she lays dead weight on top of him, heavy and still. She laughs again, but this time the sound of her laughter is quiet and sleepy instead of bright and loud.  


All the hairs on his arms stand straight up as she braces one hand on the top of his chair, pushing herself slowly up with the other, her body dragging across his in a way that makes him feel both hot and cold at the same time.  


Without thinking, he reaches up and wraps both hands around her wrists. He doesn’t squeeze or pull – just holds her still, one of his thumbs instinctively beginning to rub soothing circles on her wrist.  


“Tess--” he begins, without a single fucking clue what he’s going to say next.  


Her eyelids are heavy with wine and exhaustion as she appraises him, still crouched awkwardly overly over him, halfway to standing.  


Without a word, she nudges his legs with one of her knees, and he scoots over wordlessly, the chair leaning precariously for a second. Smiling sleepily, she curls up on her side, the top of her head nestled under his chin, her breasts soft and warm against his rib cage.  


Horrifyingly, he feels another bout of verbal diarrhea approaching, as he opens his mouth to tell her a host of things that are better left unsaid.  


That he thinks he loves Jackie.  


That he wants a family and a real life outside of the rink – outside of their careers and the suffocating personas they now represent.  


That he’s desperately fucking afraid to have all of those things at the same time.  


That he’s desperately fucking afraid that their relationship and friendship is hopelessly damaged – that it was never healthy to begin with.  


That he’s desperately fucking afraid that he’ll always need her more than he’ll want anything else.  


“Close your eyes,” Her command is a low murmur – her palm now resting over his heart, one of her socked feet tucking gently under his calf.  


He resists for second, struggling to recall exactly why the quiet voice in his head feels this could potentially be a terrible idea.  


“I’m just so tired,” she says, slurring slightly. Her voice is so sluggish she almost sounds drugged. “Can we just rest?”  


“Yeah,” he says quietly, surrendering wordlessly to himself and to her. “We can rest for a little while.”  


*********************************  
  
In the end, Tessa isn’t sure which wakes up her up – the abrupt removal of Scott’s warm knee wedged between her legs or the insistent ringing of her cell phone.  


In the mottled purple gray light that only occurs right before dawn, she watches him through barely cracked eyes as he disentangles himself and sits up, still swaying slightly. Fumbling, he finally extracts the phone where it lays wedged between them, clicking the button on the side to silence it.  


As he stares at the screen, he gingerly swings his body until his feet are planted on the ground, his toes pointed toward his abandoned chaise.  Eventually, the lit screen dims, and then finally goes black.  


Back slumped, he leans forward and places the phone face down on the empty chair. His forearms resting on the tops of his legs, his head drops into his hands.  


For the first time since they sat down on the patio hours before, she feels properly cold. A fine layer of goose pimples blankets the length of her arms and legs.  


Knowing it’s a bad idea but strangely unable to stop herself, she lifts her hand and gently rests it on the small of his back.  


“What time is it?” she asks, her voice hoarse from disuse. He feels firm and warm under his dress shirt, which is untucked and extremely wrinkled at the bottom.  


“Really late or really early…depending on how you look at it,” he croaks after a moment, his head still cradled in his hands.  


Tessa can feel the sloping ridges of his spine under her palm, rising and falling methodically. He stretches imperceptibly into her touch – so imperceptibly that she’s not even sure he realizes what he’s doing.  


With her heartbeat in her ears, the smell of his laundry detergent filling her nose and a complete absence of common sense in her brain, she slides her hand down, dipping beneath his wrinkled shirttail to touch his bare back.  


They sit like unmoving like that for what feels like a long time. Then, slowly, but with purpose, she begins to walk her fingertips up and down and side to side, firmly pressing into the taut muscles of his back.  


He shivers, silently inching even closer to her. “Spiders are the best,” he mutters, rounding his back in a stretch.  


That’s what they’ve always called this kind of massage – “spiders” – because the wandering but precise movement of fingertips walking on skin sort of mimics the progress of scuttling spiders.  


At least that had been their rationale when they’d coined the term in middle school.  


Without stopping her right hand’s ministrations, she sits up, dragging the left side of his shirttail up and adding her other hand to the mix.  


Her fingers roam slowly but purposefully, lingering only when she feels small knots of tension, which she gently but efficiently loosens.  


He lets out a quiet grunt, scooting back until his ass is pressed against her center, causing her right leg to drop alongside his, her inner thigh pressed against his hip.  


Watching him quiver helplessly under her hands is like being sucked into some kind of hypnotic trance, where reality is solely defined by a bottomless, suffocating want. The kind of want that doesn’t feel good – only necessary.  


Fingers still moving, she leans forward and brushes her lips against the side of his neck, tilting her hips into him.  


Again, she lowers her head, only this time she begins to suck gently on the thin skin covering the muscles and tendons along the column of his neck, using just a tiny bit of teeth.  


Just like he likes.  


He lets out a low groan, as she moves up to his ear, nipping at the lobe. Sliding her right hand around his middle, her fingers trail lightly over his ribcage, skimming the dusting of hair beneath his belly button.  


“Tess. Please.” His hand is now gripping just above her knee, and humiliatingly, it takes the space of a few breaths to realize his quiet but strained tone is decidedly more “stop” than “go.”  


Like she’s been slapped, she jerks away, her hands dropping to her lap as she scoots as back as far as the chaise allows.  


“We can’t do this,” he says quietly, still facing away from her, his shirttail messily hiked up on one side.  


She watches his shoulders move up and down twice, as if he’s taking slow, deep but almost silent breaths.  


“We can’t keep doing this,” he amends, pushing to his feet. He turns and squats down, angling his head to look under the chair for what she assumes are his shoes, giving her a clear view of his expression.  


His mouth looks angry. But his eyes look flat and empty.  


“I shouldn’t-” Tessa stops and tries again. “I didn’t mean to drink so much. I’m sor--”  


He cuts her off with a sharp, bitter laugh as he grabs his shoes and belt from under the chair. “We’re going to pretend that all of this tonight is because you drank an extra half bottle of wine--” He checks his watch. “--three hours ago?”  


Bending over, Scott balances one hand on the chair as he roughly shoves his feet into his loafers. They’re new, she notices dully. A style she would have gently dissuaded him from buying if this were a year ago.  


“This isn’t because you drank too much, Tessa,” he says, as he gazes out at the skyline beyond the balcony. “It’s because we’re toxic when we’re alone like this. We’re toxic as fuck, and our relationship has become one giant Groundhog Day. Christ, I don’t want to keep hurting you. I don’t want you to keep doing this to me either.”  


Swallowing hard, Scott drops his eyes to the floor. “This is reason why the Spain trip sucked so bad – I thought it was because you were uncomfortable around Jackie. And maybe that she was just a bit insecure around you. But, that’s not it. Jackie’s not the problem. We’re the fucking problem – the stupid mind games we play with each other is the fucking problem, and--”  


He runs his hand through his hair, before looking back up. Jaw set, he looks grimly determined. “I told Jackie I loved her before I left on Sunday.”  


She considers him for a second, smoothing her face into a neutral mask.  


“And I meant it when I said it, Tess.” His voice is softer now, as he rubs his face tiredly. “I care about her a lot– I think I’m _in_ lov--”  


“Have you been honest with her about us?” she interrupts quietly, pushing to her feet, unsteadily swaying for a moment, until her hand finds the back of the chaise. “Not just about the months before and after Korea. But all of it?”  


They stare at each other silently, his unspoken answer to her question materializing between them as solidly as this chaise lounge they were just spooning on not an hour before. She watches him intently, shivering in the morning chill as she wraps her arms around herself.    


It’s hard to say exactly what she feels in this moment. A little hurt, but not as much as she should be. A little embarrassed, but not as much as she should be.  


Mostly, she feels numb. And resigned. And really, really exhausted. All of the adrenaline of the last ten minutes has evaporated, leaving a leaden heaviness in her limbs.  


“Look, I’m sorry, ok? I overstepped. It was a stupid thing to do.” She pauses, dropping her gaze to her hands as she begins to pick at the cuticle of one thumb. “The truth is I’m really happy with my life most days. I like the work I’m doing and where I’m headed professionally. I like spending more time with my family. I like where Nate and I are. We’re not exclusive, but I think we’re exactly where we need to be.”  


Pausing again, Tessa takes a deep breath and lifts her eyes to his. “And, I want all of those same things for you.”  


She’s not just saying this – she really does want Scott to be happy. Even in the bad moments, she’s never wanted him to be fucked up over them and what did and didn’t happen for the rest of his life.  


But, she can’t draw a line down the middle of a relationship like theirs and call one side ‘love’ and the other ‘everything else’ and just pick a side on which to stand. That’s not the way they’ve ever worked.  


Neither of them says anything for a long moment.  


“I’m not angry with you, alright?” He exhales, and scrubbing his eyes with his hand again. “I’m sorry if I came off angry. I just--”  


He trails off, and when their eyes meet, the look he gives her is searching, almost pleading.  


“Why don’t you go and try to catch a few hours of sleep?” she suggests calmly, turning and walking to the sliding door that leads back into the suite. Her voice is aggressively neutral. “I’ll text you links to some of the stuff Guillaume sent me – there’s a couple of great videos for tour choreography inspiration.”  


His eyebrows draw together, then down for split second before his expression settles to mimic her tone.  


“Sounds good, but just email me instead.” He follows her inside the suite, sliding the door shut behind him and walking swiftly to the front door. “It’s easier to keep track of everything in email.”  


“No problem,” she says crisply, joining him at the front door and reaching around to open it. “Try and get some sleep, yeah? Safe travels back home.”  


Stepping out into the hallway, he turns and says, almost automatically, “Oh, I’m not going--”  


The rest of his sentence is drowned out as her door clicks shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one. For a lot of different reasons. *Insert winking and eyes emojis here* 
> 
> Thanks for consistently being amazing sources of feedback and encouragement. Both are undoubtedly critical to the aforementioned creative juiciness.


	12. UPDATE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick update on Chapter 12

Here's the deal...I have the ~2500 words I promised on Osheaga ready to post. But, when I emerged from my workweek from hell last night long enough to check in on VM Twitter/Tumblr, I realized I can't just post the chapter as is. Trust me on this. Many of you would 'nope nope nope' right out of this fic forever. And, I don't want that. You don't really want that, right?

Good news...I have most of the pre-Walk of Fame ceremony and retirement party sections written (yes, I wrote the retirement segment a month ago...and holy shit, it works. I am prescient???). I'm going to finesse them and get an update up soon. Pinky swear, promise. 

I'm sorry/you're welcome,

Evaleigh77 :)

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me...I've missed y'all.


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